


Bah! Humbug - A Holmesian Advent Collection

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 62,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27847730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: A collection of my responses to Hades Lord of the Dead's December Advent Calendar over on fanfiction.net.
Comments: 32
Kudos: 12





	1. Twisted Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Domina Temporis: The worst year

I sat back in my seat, trying to decide how to answer the question.

“Well?” he asked me. “Come, Doctor. Why should I have to answer a question you will not?”

“Because your answer is relevant to the case, Vicar,” Holmes answered before I could try to form a response. “Are you going to answer me?”

The man scowled at us. “I see no reason to answer that. How could the worst year of my life be relevant to finding Miss Harding?”

“I am the detective, not you.” Holmes gained his feet, and I followed as he continued, “I suggest you stay in the area, Vicar. I will be in touch.”

We walked out of the room, leaving the oily vicar staring at us from his place behind his desk, and silence reigned between us as the cab horse trotted to the station.

 _What was the worst year of your life?_ The question rang in my thoughts, forcing me to consider it. How did I define “worst?” Would it be the months I had spent in a fog of grief after Mary died? Could I count the year I had lost Holmes as “worst” when I did not even remember a large portion of it?

The cab jolted to a stop, and I followed Holmes to a first-class compartment, more focused on my thoughts than where I stepped. I had finally accepted Holmes’ assertions that the events at the falls had been his doing, not mine, but acceptance did not change the guilt that had followed me for years. I had only just begun to push that guilt from my mind when Mary died, and I had been left alone.

I pulled my thoughts away from that time. I did not need to think about that now, with Holmes next to me. He was alive, and those events were in the past, never to be repeated.

I hoped.

But what would the _worst_ year be? The question refused to silence, and I let my thoughts wander as I stared through the window, seeing years long gone instead of the passing countryside. What about the aftermath of Maiwand, when I had lost both health and home? The year we lost our parents? The first year back in Scotland after enjoying Australia for so many months? How should I define such a strong word?

“Watson?”

A hand landed on my shoulder, and I smothered a jump, turning to look at Holmes. Concern flashed in his gaze, disappearing quickly as I made eye contact.

“Are you with me?”

I nodded, firmly shoving my thoughts aside for another time. His tone said he had tried several times to get my attention before I finally answered, and I tried to force a smile, digging my notes from my pocket. He probably wanted to discuss the vicar’s interview.

He waved the notebook away. “What was your impression?”

I raised an eyebrow, confused. “What do you mean?”

“The vicar,” he answered, still staring at me for all that his words had moved away from my inattention. “What did you think of him?”

I had been too deeply immersed in my thoughts to emerge into the present immediately, but I realized soon enough what he was asking. He could not induce a person the same way he could deduce them, and he relied on me to voice the impressions he could not logically understand.

“Oily,” I said after a moment. “Shady. Not _dishonest_ , but not honest, either.” I hesitated, debating. “He knows where she is, or where she most likely is, and he might have put her there.”

He nodded, leaning back in the bench though his gaze never left me, but I continued before he could say anything.

“What did your question have to do with finding Miss Harding?”

“They grew up in the same town,” he answered. “It is highly likely that they went to school together. I learned more from his refusal to answer than I would have from any reply he might have given.”

I frowned, trying to follow his train of thought. “What did you learn?”

“All in good time,” he replied, brushing the question away. He nearly continued but hesitated, staring at me. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I huffed a laugh. “No more than you do. Why not share the best years instead?”

He quirked a grin. “I am not sure you want to know mine. You go first.”

I affected a scowl but answered. “1889.”

“Why?”

“That was the year you frequently asked us to help in your cases, the only year I had you both.”

He hesitated, then allowed a full grin to break free. “I was going to say either ’89 or this past year.”

I nodded, leaning back in my seat with a grin. “We’re agreed then. That is good to know.”

He pulled a face at the comment but turned the topic back to the case, and the train ride flew by.


	2. Birthdays and Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Hades Lord of the Dead: Read about the history of Columbia Road Flower Market and write something in response

“Come along, Watson.”

Holmes’ voice snapped me out of my thoughts, and I forced myself to turn away from the booth that had caught my eye, hurrying through the market to catch up with my friend.

“Where are we going?”

He did not answer immediately, focused on forging a path through the bustling crowd. “Do you see the man in front of the spice booth?” he asked after a moment.

“The one next to the woman in a lime green dress?”

He nodded, a faint smirk twitching his mouth to reflect the alternate wording that had crossed his mind. “He is carrying the papers. Mycroft wants to know where he leaves them.”

The man wandered away from the booth, and we edged through the crowd behind him as he slowly grew closer to another flower booth.

_Oh, the lilies are beautiful!_

The woman’s voice behind me seemed to echo through time, recalling Mary’s enjoyment of the flower so many years ago, and I forcefully pulled myself to the present yet again as Holmes moved to watch our target. Mary had adored lilies, filling the house with their cloying scent, and she had frequently amazed me with how many lilies—and other flowers—she could bring home on a given day.

It was days like this when she seemed to stand just behind me, visible if I could only turn around fast enough.

“Watson?” I refocused to find him staring at me, an obvious question in his gaze, and I glanced past him as movement caught my eye.

“He is getting away, Holmes.”

Holmes’ gaze shot back to our suspect, and I followed a step behind as he maneuvered closer to the flower booth the man was attempting to use as cover. I would have preferred not to stand so close to the largest lily seller in the market, especially today of all days, but I pushed the memories—and my grief—aside for another time. Holmes needed to track Mycroft’s suspect, and I needed to watch Holmes’ back.

The man ambled further behind the booth, and Holmes used the crowd to cover our movements as we adjusted to where we could see him. The man leaned against a streetlamp, one hand casually in his pocket to hide that the other eased a cover plate out of the post. The papers disappeared into a hollow a moment later, and the man replaced the plate and disappeared into the crowd.

“See if you can follow him,” Holmes said, gaze focused on the plate in the side of the streetlamp. “You will save Mycroft a bit of work if you can find their headquarters. I will meet you back at the flat after I take those papers to Whitehall.”

He stepped from our hiding place before I could nod, and I turned to scan the crowd as he moved toward the streetlamp.

A familiar figure stood talking to the owner of the flower booth, and I tried to move closer as the man hurried away. The crowds slowed me down, however, and I saw him cross and turn on the next street before a passing cart blocked my view. By the time the cart passed, he was gone.

I pushed my way through the crowd to the intersection, scanning faces in the hopes of spotting him again, but the crowds hindered my view. When yet another passing cart prevented me from crossing the street, I sighed and turned toward home. There was no use wandering the market when both the man and Holmes were long gone.

_However do you find so many flowers, Mary?_

Flower booths seemed to be everywhere, filling the market with their scent and littering sidewalks all the way home, and Mary seemed to stand on every corner. By the time the cab stopped in front of the flat, I was quite ready to retreat inside and call it a day.

_“There you are, John. Look at this beautiful bouquet I found.”_

The door closed a touch harder than I had intended, and I hurried upstairs before Mrs. Hudson could investigate. I needed to get out of easy sight before the date caught up with me.

I had intended to spend the day in my room anyway. I had spent Mary’s last birthday mostly in bed, flipping through journals and photo albums and considering whether I wanted to go to the cemetery, but Holmes had barged into my room early this morning with the news that Mycroft had some work for us. I had followed, of course. I could never deny him help on a case—even one as simple as this—and Holmes did not need to know why I had intended to spend the day in my room, or even that I had intended to at all.

Leaving a note for Holmes to find detailing where I had lost sight of the man, I continued up to my room and closed the door. My picture album sat in the shadowed corner of a shelf just where I had left it, and I flipped pages on the bed.

_Mary rocked with an abrupt sneeze._

_“Bless you! Apparently, I am not the only one that your lilies attack.”_

_“Oh, hush!” Her laugh rang through the room, bright and merry. “They do not attack you.”_

_“I assure you they do,” I replied, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to hide the mischievous grin twitching my mouth. “You have heard how often I sneeze when you fill the house with flowers.”_

_She laughed again, producing yet another flower—a rose this time—from a place I did not bother to decipher, and it was my turn to sneeze. The discussion deteriorated to an amusing argument about the city running out of flowers if she did not slow down._

I turned a page, bringing a different memory to the fore.

_“Mary? Can I give some of these flowers to the Irregulars?”_

_“Of course, dear,” was the immediate answer as she moved to stand in the doorway beside me. “How many do they need?”_

_Jacob looked up at her from the front step, John standing half behind him._

_“Just a few, Ma’am,” he said shyly. “It’s my sister’s birthday, you see, and I was hoping to give her some flowers as a present.”_

I quickly turned another page, shoving that memory aside and searching for a different one.

_“John, it’s beautiful!” She looked up from the necklace resting in the box, her eyes sparkling with surprise._

_“Happy birthday, Mary.”_

The book shut with a muted thump, and I nearly threw it to the blanket beside me, ignoring the way my eyes stung. Two years past her death, I still longed to see her walk through the door, longed to spend one more day with her though I knew it would never be. I missed her so much that at times it seemed strange not to still be wearing mourning. How could it have been two years since her death when some days the grief still ached like it was yesterday?

I grabbed my cane, using it to steady myself on the stairs. Holmes still had not returned, and if looking at pictures and journal entries would not help, I might as well go to the cemetery. I would be just as alone there as in my room, and I waved down a passing cab as I reached the street.

The cab dropped me at the entrance, and the flowers decorating markers here and there added bursts of color to the muddy landscape. The cabbie clicked to his horse, moving away as I stepped carefully around the puddles, and I made my way toward a familiar bench, one which looked over a simple stone marker with a horribly familiar name.

“Mary Morstan Watson,” it read simply, two dates and the symbol for our unborn child deeply etched below the name.

“Hello, my dears,” I murmured, brushing the mud from the words before taking a seat. My thoughts drifted through the years, and I made no attempt to stop either my thoughts or the questions that pushed themselves forward, demanding to be considered.

Would our child have been a boy or a girl? Would Mary have wanted me to return to helping with Holmes’ cases with a child at home? Would she have been furious with him for faking his death?

Did she know how much I missed her?

Sometimes I spoke, but mostly I simply sat, allowing memories, wishes, longing to wash over me as I stared at the simple marker of what I had lost. Holmes found me there several hours later, claiming the spot on the bench next to me though I did not look up from staring at the marker. Silence reigned for a long moment.

“I wish you would tell me these dates _before_ I drag you somewhere on an important one,” he finally said.

A slightly wet chuckle broke free, and I glanced up to find relief in his gaze.

“But you are the detective,” I answered, willing to give him the pawky remark he seemed to be seeking even as I strove to hide the emotion in my voice. “Shouldn’t you be able to figure them out yourself?” I gestured to the stone at our feet. “There are two right there.”

He scowled at me, more for show than out of real irritation, and I looked back at the marker once more, my amusement fading.

“Watson?” he said after a pause.

“Hmm?”

“Why did you not say anything?”

I sighed, not looking away from the words etched into stone. “No reason to.”

“Why not?”

I hesitated, trying to decide the best way to answer, and finally shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. You delivered the papers to Mycroft?”

He nodded. “And sent him your note.” He paused, still staring at me. “Simpson’s for supper? The special today is a roast.”

A smile born more of memory than amusement turned my mouth, though I still did not look up. Mary had been partial to roasts.

“You never cared for roast.”

He brushed the comment away. “I have not had one at Simpson’s. Perhaps theirs is better than Mrs. Hudson’s.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” I warned him, but I pulled myself to my feet. I had been here long enough, and a roast sounded like a fine way to honor Mary’s birthday.

“Do you think she would stop cooking?” he asked flippantly, eyeing me to see if I would take the bait.

“She would probably chase you out of the kitchen again,” I said dryly, “with a larger spatula.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he affected a shiver. Mrs. Hudson had chased him out of her kitchen more than once, but the comment was not amusing enough to warrant the smothered grin. I studied him, trying to decide what he was thinking.

“What is it?” he asked after a moment, matching his pace to mine as I maneuvered around puddles.

I shook my head again, directing my gaze back at my feet. I had no way to ask that and even hope for an answer.

“How did you find me?” I asked instead.

“You left the photo journal on your bed,” he answered simply.

Of course. Where else would I have gone after shoving the pictures aside?

I made no response, and silence fell between us as I slowly sank into my thoughts, remembering long conversations and evenings by the fire. He walked slowly next to me, past the cemetery gates and out to the street, and hailed the cab that clip-clopped around the nearest corner. I pulled myself back to the present.

“I can walk,” I protested despite how heavily I leaned on my cane. Several hours of sitting on that hard bench had stiffened my leg, and the cool damp certainly did not help.

“Perhaps,” he answered easily, waving me into the seat, “but I do not want to.”

I scowled at him, seeing the deflection for what it was, but climbed into the seat next to him, and he launched into an amusing account of something he had done to Mycroft when they were children, distracting me from my morose thoughts the only way he could.

I would forever love and miss Mary, but I was glad Holmes had returned.


	3. Planning Subterfuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from goodpenmanship: Sherlock Holmes plays a game of chess

“Check.”

“Check.”

“Check.”

“Check.”

“Dear God, will one of you _finish_ already?”

Holmes barely glanced at where Lestrade sat on the settee. “Why would we do that? Check.”

I moved my piece, again only one move from winning as I blocked his checkmate.

“He is just irritated he cannot last this long against you. Check.”

Lestrade scowled at me while a smirk twitched Holmes’ mouth. “He did not have a Grandmaster for a childhood tutor. Of course he cannot last this long against me. Check.”

“You did not learn from a Grandmaster. Check.”

He huffed a laugh. “The only reason Mycroft is not a Grandmaster is his lack of interest in crowds. The Duke challenged him to a round less than a month after attaining his own title, boasting that he would show Mycroft how chess was played. Mycroft won in three moves. Check.”

Lestrade nearly choked on a swallow of tea. _“Three?”_

I moved my piece again. “Why not two? Check.”

“The Duke was not a _complete_ idiot. Check.”

I smirked, again moving my piece just out of range. The key to winning against Holmes was to make my plan complex enough he did not see it immediately while also being short enough he did not have time to deduce it from my expression or plays. He was far too good of a player for me to win the “Idiot Mate,” as it was called when one finished the game in two moves.

“I do not see him being interested in the title, anyway,” I answered. “Check.”’

A grin twitched Holmes’ mouth. “He did not even want the knighthood they offered him. Why would he want such a superfluous title as ‘Grandmaster?’ Check.”

“What was he offered knighthood for?”

“Many things,” Holmes answered, glancing towards Lestrade as he did so since I had yet to play, “and he refuses to provide details.”

“No matter how many times you ask,” I said with a grin of my own.

He scowled at me, looking back at the board, and I chuckled as surprise crossed his face.

“Checkmate.”

“Finally!”

Holmes ignored Lestrade, staring at the board for a moment longer before another grin twitched his mouth.

“Well, then. I suppose that means we can go. I would have had it on the next turn, you know.”

“Why do you think I did it on this turn?”

The twitched grin turned into an affected scowl, and I pulled myself to my feet, unable to smother my own amusement.

“You like that I can match you at chess,” I told him when he held the scowl too long. “There is no use denying it.”

He hesitated but let the scowl fade, lifting his coat from its place on the back of the chair as I grabbed my cane. He was my intellectual superior in many things, but having a Grandmaster for a childhood tutor meant I could provide a true challenge at chess. I knew he enjoyed our games, for all that he showed irritation when I occasionally won.

Lestrade led the way down the stairs, Holmes a step behind him, and we turned left at the street, headed to the Yard to investigate an unusual item Bradstreet had found in an alley, or so Lestrade had claimed. Holmes did not yet suspect otherwise.

I knew why we were truly going to the Yard, and I fingered the two small gifts I had hidden in a pocket, hiding a grin combining mischief and excitement by staring at a passing cab. If Holmes would not join us of his own volition, I had no problems with tricking him. After all, I could hardly conjure three ghosts to cure my friend’s dislike of the season, and Lestrade had asked me to make sure Holmes attended this year.

“It’s just in here,” Lestrade said as we reached the Yard, fumbling with his keys to open a side door. “Strangest thing I’ve ever seen, I tell you, with—well, I’ll let you see for yourself.”

He unlocked the door, shuffling us into the hallway and closing that door before leading us toward the large, open room near the back. Suspicion finally lit Holmes gaze.

Voices became audible as we rounded a corner, and Holmes glared at both of us as Lestrade threw open the door to reveal the Christmas party in full swing.

“Watson.”

I nearly laughed at the growl in his tone. “Did you not think it strange when I gave up so quickly?”

He followed me into the room, still scowling at our subterfuge. “I hoped you had learned that I do not go to parties.”

I led the way toward a table in the back, dropping our two small gifts in with all the others.

“You can handle an hour or two,” I told him, still smirking at the irritation on his face. “One would think that after being a scrooge the entire month, you would be able to enjoy Christmas for at least a few days.”

He rolled his eyes, and a faint, “Humbug,” barely carried over the din as he eyed the multiple groups of Yarders scattered about the room. I huffed a laugh, moving across the room as he reluctantly followed, and Lestrade signaled that the second half was in place.

“Why is Lestrade signaling you?” Holmes asked immediately.

“I told him you would not stay long without a reason,” I answered, grinning slyly.

He raised an eyebrow, and my grin widened.

“One Yarder carries a prize, and they may or may not know. If you can identify the person before the party is over, you get the item they carry.”

A gleam lit his eyes. “What is the prize?”

I shrugged, pouring myself a drink and handing another to Holmes. He did not need to know that yet. “I suppose you will have to find out.”

The interest in his gaze ruined the scowl he leveled at me, and he scanned the crowd. “Do I get any other clues?”

I shook my head. “Not for an hour. Ask Lestrade for it then.”

For the first time since I had met him, he actually seemed interested in a Christmas party, and I made no attempt to smother a pleased grin when he started mingling, searching for any clue he could find to locate his prize.

Perhaps he would enjoy himself today after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think the prize is?


	4. Tangential Cases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from Book girl fan: Watson has a plan

“What are you planning?”

I made no answer, focused on locating the items I needed from my desk.

Checkbook. All the coins I could find. Medical supplies to supplement what I had left there. Where had I left that spare journal? I might need the blank sheets.

“Watson? What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I muttered, searching for the last item I needed. I did not have time for another argument, no matter his opinion on my going to or near the East End. I had intended to leave nearly fifteen minutes ago.

He did not reply immediately, probably staring at me from where he stood in the doorway.

“Packing,” he finally said.

“Brilliant deduction,” I muttered facetiously. I sifted through my bag, not bothering to look up at him as I checked that I had everything I would need. “I thought stating the obvious annoyed you?”

He made no reply, and I grabbed my bag in one hand, my cane with the other, and brushed past him out the door.

I had been away much longer than I had intended, and I hurried down the sidewalk, pushing my way through the crowds that quickly thinned as I reached a poorer part of town. Charlie met me four blocks from my destination.

“How is she?” I asked as soon as I was in range, never slowing my pace as I followed him through the streets.

He shook his head, worry showing despite his attempts to hide it. “Not good, Doctor. She stopped answerin’ Mum just afore I came after yew.”

Worry lurched in my chest, and I fought to pick up my pace. Charlie had come to me early this morning, begging me to help his sister, who had been playing with another girl when she fell off a wall. The broken ankle was easily splinted, but the gash in her side had gotten infected within a few hours. I had stabilized her and gone back to the flat to pack a small valise and replenish my bag.

Their mother looked up at me as I hurried through the door. Stark worry shone in her gaze, centered completely around the young girl lying feverish on the pallet.

“Doctor—” Worry choked off her words.

“She is young and otherwise healthy,” I said even as I started mixing a poultice for the wound. “She can pull through this.”

There was no time for further conversation, and hours blended together as I focused my attention on lowering her fever, draining the infection, cleaning the wound. Her mother and brother both helped greatly, gentle hands changing warm cloths for cold and holding the young girl down when the fever made her restless. Small feet ran to the closest pharmacy when I ran out of poultice, then again when I ran out of fever reducer.

Day turned into night and back into day, and still we fought, battling the infection trying to take over her small body. At times, I thought we were going to lose her, but slowly, infection stopped building in the wound. The angry red faded from her pale skin, and the fever gradually receded.

She opened her eyes midmorning on the second full day.

“Mum?” Her voice was a faint whisper, but her eyes were clear. Pure relief nearly sent her mother to her knees.

 _“Emma.”_ One hand wrapped gently around the small one on the bed while the other cupped her cheek. Charlie crept to the other side of the pallet, sitting as close as he could to his sister without jarring her injuries, and she flicked her gaze to meet his.

“Yew ain’t allowed to scare me loike that,” he told her seriously, blinking hard.

A faint smile appeared on Emma’s face as her eyes tried to close. “Sorry, Charlie.”

I moved closer before she could go back to sleep.

“Emma?” She blinked heavily, forcing her gaze to focus on me.

“Doctor.”

“How do you feel, Emma?”

She hesitated for a moment, thinking. This was not the first time I had treated her, and she knew anything she could tell me would help.

“Tired.”

“Does anything hurt?”

She tried to wiggle in place and flinched. “Ankle ‘n side.”

Charlie moved down as I knelt, allowing me to tab Emma’s pulse as I checked the gash on her ribs.

“You broke your ankle when you fell,” I answered after a moment, “and your side hurts from where you cut yourself on a piece of metal, but those will heal with time.” I nodded at the glass of water I had left nearby, and her mother helped her sit up enough to take a drink. “You should be able to get around on crutches in a few days, but you need to stay off your ankle for six weeks.”

Her scowl looked more like a pout, and I smothered a smile, relieved she felt well enough to want to get up despite how tired the infection had left her. Her eyes closed as soon as she laid back down, and she was asleep a moment later.

“Thankee, Doctor,” their mother told me, taking my hand to squeeze in hers.

I smiled in answer. “Keep her quiet for a few days until that cut is well scabbed. You will need to keep it clean while it heals, but I do not foresee any problems. She needs to stay off her ankle and keep the splint on for six weeks, but she can use a pair of crutches in a few days. Just be sure not to jar that ankle, or it will never heal.”

She nodded, glancing at Charlie to make sure he had noted that as well, and I gathered my things.

“What d’I owe you, Doctor?”

I shook my head. “Charlie negotiated fees when he came to get me. Send for me if anything changes.”

Expressing her thanks many times as I left, she turned back to where Emma slept as Charlie followed me out the door, and I walked up the sidewalk, wondering why he had followed me instead of staying with his sister.

My question answered itself when he led me into a deserted alley that opened to a well-traveled street. Small arms suddenly wrapped themselves around my middle, nearly throwing me off balance.

“T’ank yew, Doctor,” he said, the words muffled in my jacket.

I set my bag on the ground to lay one hand against his back, saying nothing as the worry he had been suppressing for days pushed its way out, making his shoulders shake.

“She’s going to be alright,” I said as he slowly stilled, rubbing my hand in small circles on his back.

He sniffed once, then stiffened and pulled away, glancing up at me as embarrassment crossed his face.

“Oi got yew all wet. Sorry ‘bout that.”

I chuckled, squeezing his shoulder gently before retrieving my bag. “I have had patients do much worse.”

“Yew sure yew don’t want money?” he asked, wiping his face on his sleeve and trying to move the topic along. “Yew can have what oi got last week.” He dug in his pocket, offering me the shilling Holmes had paid him the day before Emma had fallen.

“No, Charlie,” I said, closing his small hand around the coin. “You keep that.”

“But doctors ‘ave fees!” he protested. “And yew saved Emma.”

“Keep your money, Charlie. Somebody else covered the fees for this one.”

He offered for a moment longer before sighing, and the shilling disappeared back into a pocket. “Thank yew, Doctor,” he said again.

He turned back the way we had come before I could reply, disappearing from the alley a moment later, and I turned toward home. It had been a long, tiring couple of days, and I looked forward to a meal and my bed, though not necessarily in that order. Each of us had eaten small amounts around caring for Emma, but I had not slept since before Charlie had come to me.

Silence reigned in the flat as the door closed behind me, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the sitting room door remained closed as I climbed the stairs. Holmes had been in one of his moods recently, and I was far too tired to bother with either taciturn silence or a cautious conversation. Perhaps a case had finally knocked on the door and his mood would improve, but for now, the silence meant I would be able to go to bed.

I went straight to my room on the chance he was sitting silently in his chair, and, taking only enough time to drop my medical bag and valise in the corner and remove my damp jacket, I nearly collapsed into bed. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

* * *

Commotion woke me. Doors slammed, first the front door, then the sitting room, and Holmes’ footsteps began pacing in front of the fireplace. I rolled over in bed with a groan. My pocket watch read nearly eight hours after I had arrived home, but after sleeping less than an hour in days, I would have preferred to stay asleep. A slammed door usually meant the case was finished successfully. Why was he pacing if his case was completed?

I stared at the ceiling for several minutes, exhausted but unable to sleep with the restless noise downstairs, and I finally sighed as my stomach growled. Mrs. Hudson would be bringing up supper soon. I could go back to sleep after I ate.

The pacing never wavered as I slowly left my room, my leg stiff from kneeling next to Emma’s pallet, and I wondered what had him so restless. It would have to be a frustrating case that had him pacing here instead of chasing leads.

The door below opened as I reached the top of the stairs, and small footsteps hurried into the sitting room.

“Timothy?” Holmes asked, and I frowned. Why was his voice bordering on frantic?

There was silence for a moment, as if Timothy had shaken his head instead of answering aloud, and his words barely carried up the stairs. “An’ Charlie’s sister is sick. He can’t help. I din’t even tell ‘im the job.”

Holmes growled, muttering something I could not quite make out as he resumed pacing in front of the fireplace. He had not included me in this case; I should not be listening to this, but I had nowhere to go. To return to my room now would let me hear even more.

Holmes said something else, and again silence was the immediate answer. “Nothin’,” Timothy added. “Th’ others are watchin’ the five closest stations, but tha ticket takers hadn’t seen 'im.”

A wordless growl carried up to the landing, but he kept pacing, and Timothy’s footsteps went down the stairs a moment later, passing Mrs. Hudson as she brought supper up.

“Eat something, Mr. Holmes,” she said after a moment, and I resumed my slow, limping way down the stairs, trying to stay quiet to avoid interrupting his train of thought.

Footsteps crossed the room to the table, paused, then returned to pacing in front of the fireplace, and the clinking of dishes filled the silence. Mrs. Hudson left the room a moment later, not even glancing at me as I reached the landing, and I frowned. Holmes’ restlessness could be due to a case, but I would have expected Mrs. Hudson to ask where I had been, then ask after Emma. She had always cared about the Irregulars, and once she heard of Emma’s injury, the family would probably receive a gift basket with a couple of meals inside.

My stomach growled again, and I pushed the thought aside. I would figure out why both of them were acting so strangely later. Food was more important at the moment, and I slowly made my way to the table, trying to silence the thumping of my stick as Holmes continued pacing with his back to the door. Whatever had made him so restless had probably made him irritable as well, and I was far too tired to deal with an argument. He was more likely to snap at me than anything else if I interrupted him now.

I bumped a chair as I reached the table, however, breaking the relative silence with a loud thump, and I smothered a sigh and braced myself for the scathing comment. Would it be that I had been gone for two, almost three days? Or perhaps that I had been unavailable when this most recent case started? Or simply that I had made a noise when he was trying to think? The night before Charlie had come, he had snapped something about my inability to follow his deductions. That one had had been harder to brush off than the others.

I received none of these, to my confusion. He glanced up at me, glanced away, then just as quickly looked back at me as he froze in place. His face went slack, surprise flitting briefly across his gaze, and he blinked hard before staring at me as if unable to believe his eyes.

“What is it, Holmes?” I asked after a moment, my voice low with both physical and mental fatigue. Less than eight hours of sleep had not come close to making up for over two days without, and the strain of helping Emma through the infection had left my thoughts nearly as sluggish as my step.

He stared at me for a moment longer before he mastered himself.

“You are alright?” He quickly crossed the room to grab my arms in an iron grip, keen gaze scanning me.

I frowned at him, readjusting my feet as his grip nearly threw me off balance.

“I’m fine, Holmes. Why are you looking at me like that?”

He released his grip on my arms to allow me to sit but made no immediate answer, merely claiming the chair next to me to stare as I dished some food on a plate.

“Holmes?” I prompted. I was far too tired to try to read his thoughts. Why was he staring at me as if struggling to believe I was here? Had he so enjoyed having the flat to himself that he wished I had not returned so soon?

He still made no answer, and I sighed, turning my attention to the plate in front of me. “What is the case?” If he would not explain his reaction, perhaps he would tell me what the Irregulars were doing.

“The Case of the Missing Flatmate,” he answered.

I froze mid-bite, debating whether he had meant that the way it sounded. Had he spent the last days thinking—

I glanced up at him to find him still staring at me intently.

“Where were you?”

I finished chewing and swallowed. “Charlie’s sister fell, and the cut got infected.”

He thought about that. “Why did you pack a valise?”

I swallowed another bite. “Her fever was spiking. I needed supplies from my desk as well as the ability to get more should I run out. Did you really think—?”

The sentence cut off, but he knew what I was asking.

“You went to bed early that night and were gone the next morning,” he said quietly, his ears turning faintly red as he avoided mentioning _why_ I had left the sitting room early. “I came home to find you quickly packing a bag, including your checkbook, all the money you had in your desk, and a spare journal, and you left with barely a word. I tried to follow you, but a passing cart prevented me from crossing the street behind you. By the time it passed, you had disappeared.”

He would have continued searching for me himself at first, but I had taken several unusual shortcuts to reach Emma as quickly as possible, and it made sense why he had not been able to catch up with me. He had probably set the Irregulars searching for me when he did not locate me quickly, which explained his conversation with Timothy as well as the restless pacing. He despised not being able to locate someone, especially in London.

“I should not have said what I did,” he said quietly before I could find my words.

I waved off the near apology, taking another bite as I did so. There was no reason to discuss this. We both knew his irritated comment had been true, for all that he may not have intended to voice it. “Don’t worry about it, Holmes. I know how you get between cases.”

The fingers resting on the table twitched at my reply, and I glanced away from my plate to meet his gaze.

“Why must you be so stubborn?” he asked instead of pursuing the topic.

An exhausted amusement coursed through me, and I allowed the tired smirk to break free.

“I learned it from you. Are you going to call off the Irregulars before one of them tries to drag Charlie away from his sister? Because I don’t believe that will go over well.”

He released a huff of amusement but pushed himself to his feet, and I finished the last bite and followed him out to the landing.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he called as I walked toward the stairs. Footsteps sounded below, and her voice carried up from the hallway.

“Mr. Holmes?” She came around the corner to peer up the stairs, and pleased surprise crossed her face when I leaned over the railing. “Doctor! When did you get home?”

“About eight hours ago,” I said with a faint grin, “and I went straight to bed. I do not believe you were home at the time.”

She shook her head, but Holmes cut off anything she might have replied.

“Tell the Irregulars?” he said as I turned toward the stairs to my room. “Timothy should be outside somewhere.”

The front door opened a moment later, closing behind her as she started looking for Timothy, but Holmes did not reenter the sitting room.

“Holmes?” I said from the stairs. I waited a beat, making sure he was listening. “Try not to slam any doors for a few hours, would you?”

A bark of laughter came from the landing, and I resumed slowly climbing the stairs and crawled into bed.

Perhaps this time I would be able to sleep myself out.


	5. Vigils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From zanganito: Snowstorm
> 
> Vaguely references my Watson’s Woes responses 15, 16, and 21

I resisted the urge to pace in front of the fireplace. Doing so would only wear me out, and I could not afford my limp growing any worse.

 _Where_ was Holmes?

He had left hours ago, denying the use of my motorcar for a simple trip into town. He had intended to return in only a couple of hours, but darkness was falling, and the path to the cottage remained worryingly empty.

Had there been an accident?

The first snowflakes of this evening’s storm began to fall, and they grew in size and number as I moved from my chair to stare out the window. The path came from the back of the cottage, so I would not see him until he was nearly to the door, but I could not sit and do nothing. I would go search for him soon, regardless of how badly the incoming storm had affected my old injuries.

I hated the results of my military service in times like these. Sussex was much more temperate than London, but the occasional winter weather still frequently forced me to remain indoors. I had been limping for several hours already, since the temperature had started dropping this morning, and Holmes had gone into town without me.

Better a cold vigil than a worried one. I should have gone with him.

Had something happened in town? Was he injured? The war saw regular attacks occurring at the busier stations, and while the Sussex station hardly counted as _busy_ , no place was immune. What would cause him to be so late?

The path remained empty, and the snow was falling harder. I could wait no longer. Grabbing my thickest coat and my cane, I hurried out the door.

A quickly deepening blanket of white met my searching gaze, and I limped my way towards town on what I hoped was the road, covered as it was by snow. I would not be able to take the ‘car with the incoming storm, and he might have tried to take a path my motorcar could not follow. I could drive past him and never know it. Better to walk, however slowly.

“Holmes!”

There was no answer. The falling snow seemed to muffle my voice as it muffled my footsteps, and I called louder.

“Holmes!”

Silence answered me, and I pushed myself forward, ignoring the pain the cold sent lancing through my leg and shoulder. I would check town first before beginning to trace the two or three possible routes he could have taken on the way back to the cottage.

“Holmes!” The wind carried my words away, and I kept walking, the crunch of snow beneath my feet joining the whistling wind to make hearing a call for help a challenge.

The muffled thumping of a horse trotting through the snow reached my ears, and a shape appeared out of the swirling white. I moved to the edge of the road to let the cart pass.

“Watson?”

Relief shot through me as Holmes’ voice sounded from the shadow in the front of the cart, and I hurried forward to find Holmes and Stackhurst sharing the driver’s bench.

“Holmes! Are you alright?”

“Perfectly fine, but you should not be out in this weather.”

I scowled at him, accepting a hand up to the bench as he and Stackhurst moved to let me sit. “You said you would be home hours ago. Of course I started searching for you.”

Something like remorse crossed his face as Stackhurst nodded a greeting to me before signaling the horse forward.

“There was a bigger crowd at the shop than I anticipated,” he told me, scanning me for injury just as I was scanning him. “It took longer than normal to get everything we needed, and I met a local beekeeper on the way out.”

Amusement mixed with my irritation. He and the other beekeeper had started trading stories, I knew, and Holmes had lost track of time.

“I nearly had to pull him into my cart,” Stackhurst added with a smirk as we drew near the cottage. “With how fast this snow is falling, he would never have found the path in the dark.”

Holmes scowled at the teasing words but made no comment, glancing at me as I readjusted on the seat, and I spoke quickly to fill the silence.

“Thank you for that,” I said, trying to hide the way I massaged my bad leg. “He would not have enjoyed me finding him talking about bees in the middle of town hours after he said he would be home.”

Holmes redirected his scowl toward me, but we came to a stop before he could respond. Holmes nodded the thanks I said aloud, and Stackhurst disappeared into the storm as the door closed behind us.

“You need to warm up,” Holmes told me, nearly pushing me toward the fireplace as a spasm shot down my leg.

I did need to warm up, but there was no reason for the worry lighting his gaze.

“I’m fine, Holmes,” I said somewhat irritably, settling into my chair as he stoked the fire. “I left less than thirty minutes ago.”

He harrumphed at me. “You should not have left at all.” Quickly building the fire to our normal level, he took his bags to the kitchen.

“You were hours later than you said, and there was a snowstorm rolling in,” I replied after he had finished putting the groceries away and joined me in front of the fire with a fresh pot of tea. “I could hardly sit here doing nothing.” He opened his mouth, probably to point out that I would not have been able to help him after only a few more minutes in the cold and wet, but I continued before he could form the words. “Do you remember the winter before Switzerland when that gang laid an ambush? What was the reason I gave you for going out in a snowstorm despite being sensitive to cold?”

He raised an eyebrow, understanding and remorse beginning to mix on his face. “’Better a cold vigil than a worried one,’” he quoted quietly.

I nodded. “I am going with you next time.”

He huffed at me, obviously disliking such a plan, but he made no reply, and the conversation turned to other things as the storm raged outside.


	6. Rest Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Ennui Enigma: A mysterious cottage in the countryside
> 
> Directly references Priorities and Nightwalker. Takes place the day after Nightwalker

"Hurry up, Watson. We are nearly there."

"Nearly _where?_ You still have not told me where we are going."

His posture told me a smirk had probably twitched the corner of his mouth, but he made no reply, waving me along without looking back from his place a few steps ahead of me. Wherever he was leading me, he was obviously excited.

We were staying in the country for a few days as a rest cure, mostly for him, but for me as well. He had started sleepwalking after over two months of running himself to the ground on his cases, and I had gotten myself injured a couple of weeks prior. A recent accident had reopened my injury, and I had been trying to relax in the room’s hard chair when he barged into the drafty space, insisting he needed to show me something. I had followed him, of course, but I had been limping behind him for nearly twenty minutes. I was reaching my limit.

"Holmes."

He glanced back, finally noting the way my limp had increased, and faint remorse crossed his face. Though the faded path down which he led me was level enough, he had been so caught up in showing me whatever he had found that he had neglected to check his pace. He slowed immediately.

"We are not far," he assured me, taking my arm in his.

The slower pace eased the pain shooting through my leg, and within a couple of minutes, I was able to turn my attention to my surroundings. The dry path followed the edge of an open field, with trees scattered here and there and grasslands between. Sunlight shone brightly from a cloudless sky, highlighting dark green leaves and the last few wildflowers, and bees and other insects flit between the spots of color. Birds twittered all around, and the bubbling of a stream came from a nearby copse of trees.

The path turned, detouring around the trees and plunging into the midst of another field, and the ground in front of us opened. Suddenly, I could see nearly a mile in every direction except one.

A ramshackle cottage blocked part of the skyline, still standing despite years of apparent neglect, and Holmes led me directly toward it.

"What is this?"

He made no answer, leading me closer and opening the door with a key, and he watched as I studied the small building in front of me. For all that the outside was so run down, the inside was whole, needing nothing more than a good cleaning, and I faintly noticed Holmes’ tracks crisscrossing the thick dust. The crooked door opened to a dusty sitting room, with a small kitchen and two bedrooms disappearing into the back of the cottage.

"You said at least a week," he finally broke the silence, referring to how long we would be away from London. "The owner has no time to care for it, but he is willing to let us stay here free of charge provided we clean it up. We could hire someone from town to do the work instead of staying another night at the inn."

I smothered a grin, seeing the apology for what it was. He had initially refused to listen to me when I informed him that he was sleepwalking, and a byproduct of his sleepwalking had been the accident that reopened my injury. We had left London yesterday morning, but the one night we had spent in the inn had hardly been _restful_. The cold draft had removed any hope of sleep. 

"What is there for beds and warmth?”

I slowly shuffled inside, trying not to kick up too much dust as I studied the front room, and Holmes led the way to the closest bedroom.

“The last occupants left rather quickly,” he said with a smirk that suggested there was more to the story than he was telling me. “The cottage is fully furnished.”

A filthy settee, a blackened fireplace, and a bed draped with more dust than coverlets met my slow tour, along with a half-stocked kitchen and some moth-eaten clothes in one of the wardrobes. All the windows were whole, however dirty, and none of the furniture appeared to be damaged. We were under a half-hour’s walk from town, less once I healed a bit more or if he went without me, and he was right. This cottage only lacked a thorough cleaning and a few supplies to make a good home for the next week or so.

“Well?” he finally asked when I stayed quiet for too long, surveying the cottage for what we would need to do before darkness fell.

“I think it will do nicely.”

Holmes had obviously explored a bit earlier, but his tracks stopped at the door into the other bedroom, and after another glance at the closer one, I looked inside. Nearly a mirror image to the other room, a bed and an end table took up most of the floor space, with a small dresser tucked into the back corner, but a strange section of wall caught my eye as I turned to leave. I moved closer.

The corner opposite the dresser had obviously been hastily redone in more recent years, and the plaster had begun peeling away to reveal the structure beneath. Curious, I stepped forward to look inside. Harry and I had always enjoyed finding things hidden in the small nooks scattered throughout our family home. What could someone have hidden in a country cottage such as this?

Hollow eyes peered back at me, and I lurched back, then looked again.

“Holmes?! Why is there a skeleton in the bedroom wall?”

His wandering footsteps froze, then nearly pounded through the cottage to reach where I stood.

“If we are living here for the next week,” I said, my gaze never leaving the several-year-old skeleton looking back at me, “this will be your room.”

He waved me off, and I stepped back to let him have a closer look as I sighed, recognizing the light in his eyes.

Could the “rest” half of a rest cure still occur when there was an unsolved murder in the vicinity?

I rather doubted it.


	7. Preferences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From goodpenmanship: Sherlock Holmes goes undercover.

“Mary! We need to go!”

Light footsteps came from the bedroom, and Mary joined me by the door a moment later.

“The concert is at two,” she told me serenely, the twinkle in her eye belying the steady words as I quickly locked the door behind us.

I shook my head. “Holmes wants us there early, remember? Something to do with his latest case.”

Her gentle laugh barely reached my ears over the cab horse’s ill-timed neigh, and I took my seat next to her as the cab lurched away from the door.

“I forgot about that,” she admitted, the apology ringing through her words. “Did he tell you about the case?”

“Did you really expect him to?” She laughed again, shaking her head I continued, “All I know is that he wants us in place by half past one.”

“We will be fine, then. The hall is not far.”

I smothered a grin of my own, recognizing a phrase she had likely picked up from Holmes. He frequently ran late or nearly late in all but his cases, claiming all the while that we would be fine because it was only a certain time, and Mary had not used that particular phrasing before. I had no time to comment on it, however, as she was right. We had only taken a cab to save time. The cab came to a halt in front of the concert hall, and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves disappeared into the crowd as I walked toward the door, Mary on my arm.

The entry swarmed with people ducking and pushing every which way, and I led us off to the side for a moment, trying to catch a glimpse of Holmes. He had refused to tell me what he needed me to do, of course, and I hoped he would find us in time for us to help.

“Where are our seats?” Mary finally asked as she looked around the crowded lobby. Far too many people moved through the small space. We could stand here for the next hour and never spot anything of import, and I glanced at the tickets.

“This way.”

Forging a path through the crowd, I stopped in front of a small side door that I knew led to the box seating. Showing our tickets to the usher, he pointed the way to our seats, and Mary’s surprise lit her tone.

 _“These_ are our seats?” she asked in a whisper when I pointed to two of the best seats in the house, from which I could see the entire orchestra as well as pieces of backstage.

“Holmes gave us the tickets,” I said quietly, trying to smother my grin at her obvious pleasure. “He knows how much we enjoy concerts, but I would imagine the location has more to do with why we are here than anything else.”

The admission did nothing to quell her excitement, but she did not have a chance to reply as footsteps came up beside me.

“Champagne, Monsieur?” a heavily accented voice asked. “Mademoiselle?”

Holmes’ grey gaze greeted my searching look, and Mary quieted immediately as she took in his disguise. If not for the familiar grey eyes, the man in front of me would be just another French waiter.

“Thank you,” I replied, handing one glass to Mary and turning back to take the other.

Holmes leaned forward as I did so, dropping the accent as he used the exchange to mutter just loudly enough for me to hear.

“Watch the second violin. If he leaves, note the time and which door. Do not follow. Do not leave Mary alone or take anything from any other server.”

I nodded, and he disappeared as I turned back towards Mary, who had pretended to ignore the short exchange. Her gaze watched the crowd instead of me as I quickly relayed Holmes’ words.

“Which one is the second violin?” she asked as both first and second violins took their seats.

“The man who sat down first.”

She fell silent, most of her attention watching the other members of the orchestra take their seats and begin to tune their instruments. Her gaze kept flicking back to the man Holmes had told us to observe, however, and I joined her, watching everything even as I kept an eye on our target.

He was an abnormally tall man, close to Holmes’ height or taller, with shockingly dark hair that seemed more inclined to curl into ringlets than lay flat. An intense expression seemed to read deeply into everything he saw, whether the violin in front of him, his sheet music, or those around him, and long, thin fingers carefully tuned the instrument on his shoulder. The individual notes were lost in the cacophony of the crowd and the other musicians, but his position as second violin, if achieved honestly, meant he was likely a highly skilled player. I wondered why we were watching him.

I would have to wait to find out, but watching the man did not interfere with enjoying the concert. One of the top-billed performances in the city, the orchestra moved among various renditions of both familiar songs and new. By the time the music stopped for intermission, the violinist had not yet left his chair, and both Mary and I were having a wonderful time.

Those around us stood, stretched, and left to fight the crowds in the lobby as the orchestra cleared, but mutual agreement kept us in our seats. We had no need to visit the lobby, and Holmes would want to know when and if the violinist returned. He had been one of the first to stand, disappearing through a curtain leading backstage.

“Would you care for a drink, sir?” a voice asked as intermission drew to a close.

I turned to find a much shorter copy of the second violinist standing behind me, several glasses of what looked like champagne on a tray.

“No thank you.” My voice was firm, leaving no room for persuasion, and he did not even offer to Mary before walking away. I saw another couple nearby catch his attention, and the man took the offered glass. The server disappeared into the regathering crowd a moment later, however, and I turned back toward the orchestra.

“He returned just a moment ago,” Mary said when my gaze landed on the violinist in his seat, “coming through the curtain opposite the one he used to leave.”

Noting the time and door in the journal I always carried in one pocket, I watched as the man dug through a bag he had shoved beneath his chair. He pulled something from his pocket to drop into the bag as the other musicians began taking their seats, but we were too far away to determine what it might be. The music swelled as the orchestra began the second act, and I leaned back in my seat, one arm around my beautiful wife and thoroughly enjoying myself.

“Why do you think he told us not to accept another drink?” Mary asked nearly thirty minutes later, using a rather loud portion of one of the final songs to cover the quiet words.

I shook my head minutely, glancing towards the other couple. “I have no idea, but we might find out sooner than we wish. That man over there requested a glass.”

She waited for me to look back at the orchestra before she hazarded a glance for herself, noting the husband’s pinched expression. I hoped it was due to the current piece rather than a problem with the drink.

The music ended with a flourish, and the hall filled with applause as the conductor turned to face the audience. My breath caught in my throat, and I smothered a wide grin. _Holmes_ had been conducting all evening, overlarge, padded clothing making him unrecognizable from the back, and he seemed to stare directly at me, probably with a smirk trying to escape.

I continued clapping, giving no indication that I had recognized him, but Mary gasped and bumped my elbow. The second violinist had disappeared from his seat in the brief moment I had glanced away, and I saw him crouching to hide behind the other standing musicians as he aimed for the back door. I looked back at Holmes.

He still went through the motions of accepting the applause for conducting, but he was undoubtedly staring at me. I quickly pulled out my pocket watch, apparently checking the time though my pointing finger directed his attention toward the door.

Stepping down from the platform to give the applause to the orchestra, he moved through the crowd as a commotion sounded behind me.

“Henry!”

I spun, turning to find that the gentleman I had noted earlier was now clutching his chest.

“Doctor!” his wife screamed. “Is anyone here a doctor? Henry! Henry, say something!”

I would have preferred Mary wait for me at our seats, but Holmes’ warning rang in my mind as I made to move. I pulled a small knife from my pocket, hiding it with my palm as I placed it in her hand.

“Stay directly behind me,” I muttered, feeling her stay with me as I hurried to help. “Scream if anyone touches you.”

The woman continued screaming, drawing every eye in the room toward her, and I faintly noticed a familiar figure disappear backstage.

“My name is Doctor Watson,” I cut in as I reached where she shook her husband. “What happened?”

I felt Mary take a deceptively innocent stance behind me as I knelt in front of the seat, and the woman pulled herself together just enough to answer my question.

“I don’t _know!”_ she nearly wailed as her husband arched his back against the cushion, oblivious to his wife’s hysteria. “He grew quiet, and I thought he was simply ready to leave, but then he stood late to applaud and collapsed almost immediately.”

The rigidity changed to convulsions, and I pulled the man from his seat to lay on the floor as his face twisted into a macabre grin.

“What is going on?” the wife wailed. “Henry!”

“Strychnine,” I muttered, and I felt Mary tense behind me. Only strychnine matched all the symptoms, and without my bag, I had no way to treat it.

“Has someone sent for another doctor?” I called loudly enough for the gathering crowd to hear.

“I did,” a young man replied immediately. “Doctor Montrose should be here shortly.”

I nodded, relieved. I had known a Doctor Montrose in medical school, and if this was the same one, he would have both the knowledge and the supplies to treat this. He had entered medical school after watching his father die from a strychnine overdose.

 _“Do_ something!” the wife cried when her husband, Henry, continued convulsing.

“Go watch for the doctor,” I told her, more to give her something to do. “Tell him it’s strychnine. There is little I can do for this without any supplies.”

There was little I could do even _with_ supplies, but I saw no need to voice that. She hurried off, the noise level decreasing dramatically in her absence, and I turned back to the man shaking on the floor.

This could have been either of us, without Holmes’ warning, but I pushed the thought aside. It was not us, and it was not our fault that the man had accepted the glass I had refused. I focused on trying to prevent the convulsing man from injuring himself on the nearby seats.

Footsteps sounded behind me, and an older version of my old friend knelt on Henry’s other side.

“Watson,” he greeted with a faint smile, most of his attention on the man between us.

“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances, Montrose,” I said in return. “Looks like strychnine, delivered through a glass of champagne.”

He nodded. “The wife mentioned as much,” he answered as he dug through his bag, pulling out a familiar bag I knew would be labelled “Activated Charcoal.”

“John!”

I spun away from the patient at Mary’s warning, finding her fending off the guilty server’s advance. He had either tried to sneak up on me or grab her from behind, and while she was defending herself most admirably with that knife, I did not check my lunge.

“Get your hands off my wife!”

I hit him with a rugby tackle, and Mary scored a hit as we went down. Blood trickled from a deep cut on his hand as I pinned him to the floor.

“What the blazes is going on here?!”

“Excellent timing, Lestrade,” I said as the shorter inspector pushed his way through the crowd. “Attempted murder by poison times three—at minimum.” I nodded my head toward where Montrose worked over the lady’s husband, the lady in question kneeling where I had been a minute earlier and much calmer now that someone appeared to be doing something. “What brought you here?”

“A couple of constables are loading Holmes’ man into a wagon out front,” he answered quietly, locking the cuffs as I held the struggling man in place. “He sent me in here just before I heard the commotion, claiming the man had a partner amongst the crowd.”

I huffed a laugh as two constables pushed their way towards us. “More like a twin. I’m not sure how much is a disguise, but he appears to be a shorter copy of the other one.”

“By Jove, you’re right,” Lestrade breathed when he got a glimpse of the man’s face. His surprise changed to a chuckle a moment later, but he made no further comment, nodding a farewell to us before he and the constables led the man away.

With a glance confirming that Mary was unhurt, I turned back toward my patient.

“Need any help, Montrose?”

He shook his head. “Go ahead. I can get someone else to help me get him home, but I feel like I’m missing half the story, here.”

I chuckled and scribbled two addresses in my journal before tearing out the page.

“The first one will give you a clue. Meet me at the second one tomorrow for tea, and I’ll fill you in. Not even _I_ have all the details yet.”

Recognition lit his gaze when he glanced at the paper, but he simply tucked it into an inner pocket with a nod. He would be there, and Mary and I pushed our way out of the crowd to a quiet corner.

“You are alright?” I checked again, scanning her to make sure I had not missed something.

“I’m fine, John,” she told me quickly, her reassuring grin gaining a mischievous lilt as she returned my blade. “He tried to get past me and seemed surprised when I pulled the knife on him.”

I laughed, taking her arm as we turned to leave. “He did not expect such a pretty lady to be so deadly.”

She was even prettier when she blushed.

* * *

“So why were you conducting an orchestra?” I asked, enjoying my old place before the fire.

Holmes tried to hesitate, and Mary frowned at him from her spot on the settee. “Sherlock.”

His hesitation turned into an affected scowl. “I still cannot get used to you calling me that.”

“Why do you think I do it?” she replied mischievously. “We’ve been over this. If we cannot know everything _during_ the case, we at least get the details after it’s over. Besides, your warning was the only thing that kept us both from strychnine poisoning. What was the case?”

He sighed, trying to hide that he scanned each of us, double checking that we were well. “It began as a laundering operation. Hall played in the orchestra, and King usually acted as an assistant. With Hall part of the performance, both he and King would collect a small paycheck, providing a legitimate source of money as well as a location for the smuggling ring they ran out of the concert hall after hours.”

“What changed?”

“I started investigating them,” he answered me. “Once Hall realized I was on his trail, they started getting desperate. They picked up the smuggling, trying to sell their wares before I could gather enough evidence, and one of them started following me frequently. Today was the last night for this playbill. King needed a distraction for Hall to leave the stage when everyone stood, and they somehow discovered that you would be in the audience. I suppose the other man looked like you?”

I shook my head. “He identified me correctly, but the other man flagged him down when I refused. He could not deny the other man a glass without losing his cover.”

Holmes made a small noise of understanding. “How is he?”

“He was still unconscious when I left," I replied. "Even the smallest dose can be deadly, as you know, and there is not much to be done aside from supportive care. I will be surprised if he lives through the night.”

Holmes seemed to tense, staring through the floor for a long moment before his eyes cleared.

“It is still early,” he noted before I could ask what was wrong. “Simpson’s for supper? My treat.”

Mary’s smile provided her answer, and I pulled myself to my feet. “Simpson’s sounds wonderful, but you do not have to buy.”

He waved me off. “Recent clients have been quite generous. Did I tell you about the burglary case last week?”

I indicated the negative, and Holmes started describing what silver spoons, a baboon, and a collection of runes had in common—aside from rhyming, of course. The story lasted us well into supper, when Mary started sharing an interesting event from her trip to the country the previous month. I always enjoyed helping on his cases, but I would take a simple evening over a free concert any day.

Judging by the variety of topics he introduced, I think he knew that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Did anyone recognize Hall's description?


	8. Senses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From W.Y. Traveller: Muted
> 
> Indirectly references Reality of Dreams and Dreaming Reality

I remember very little of the journey home.

Everything seemed dull, muted, as if someone had tried to remove the sound but not quite succeeded. Horses made no noise on the hardest cobblestone. The train car was silent. Even the crashing waves seemed far away, dim at best.

I welcomed it, glad that the world was different without Holmes in it. Life could not just go on, should not continue as if nothing had happened.

As if half of my world had not just crumbled to dust.

_My fault_.

I had left him. Believing a note about a patient back at the inn, I had left him alone on a dead-end path. Literally. He was dead, and it was my fault.

I had abandoned him to die.

Why hadn’t I insisted he come with me? I had promised I would not leave him, and even considering I thought I had a patient, I should not have left him on that trail alone. I had known he was in danger. I should have either insisted he come with me or continued with him to Rosenlaui, should have chosen his safety over a dying stranger. I could not have done anything for the woman anyway. I had known that.

But I had still left, and now he was dead.

_Murderer!_

I could not smother the flinch, but the word was accurate. For all that I had not shoved him over the edge, I had killed my dearest friend. I should not have left him.

_Deserter. Back-stabber. Traitor._

_Murderer._

I was glad that the world was muted. My thoughts were loud enough.

The train came to a stop at a familiar station, and I picked up both carpetbags, walking in a daze through the people that seemed to move aside to let me pass. I should not be carrying two bags. He should be carrying his own bag, perhaps stealing mine as well when an ill-timed jostle from the crowd made me stumble. He should be in front of me, impatiently waving me along. He should be behind me, scowling at the harried young one that knocked into me.

He should be next to me, alive.

I turned a slow circle on the platform, searching, looking, trying to remember where to go next. I had only planned as far as getting back to London. Should I go to Kensington, to Mary, who knew only that I was on my way home? Should I go to Mrs. Hudson, sitting in that empty flat that would never again ring with gunshots from the upstairs sitting room? Should I go to Mycroft, who deserved to hear the news from a friend rather than a telegram?

I should probably go there first, I decided. Mycroft is—was? No, he still is—Holmes’ brother, after all. His true brother. I should make sure Mycroft had the chance to take out anything he might display on me. I deserved it, and he should not hear the news from anyone else. It made no difference that I saw Holmes as my brother just as much as Harry. I had left him, and now he was dead. Mycroft had the right to be furious with me, to turn away, to deny whatever friendship we had formed.

I had killed his brother through my own negligence.

A large hand landed on my shoulder before I could find my way to a cab, and I turned to see Mycroft standing behind me, grief faintly showing in that watery gaze. I knew he could see both news and grief in mine, so I said nothing, letting him direct me to a waiting hansom.

Nobody bothered us. Perhaps Mycroft had already sent the reporters away. The news would have had to reach London by now, if only for Mycroft to know to meet me. I was sorry he had heard from someone else, but at least he would not berate me for killing his brother where someone could hear. We walked in silence.

Mary waited in the hansom, and I folded her into my arms with the grip of one desperate to know that not everyone I loved was gone. That not everyone I loved would die just because I was near. I had one person left. This one, the beautiful, loving woman gripping me almost as tightly as I hugged her, was still alive, still breathing. I had not lost everything over that waterfall.

“I love you.”

The words were strange, stripped bare like everything else though I knew I had spoken them, knew she had heard me, and I felt her respond. While I knew what she had said, however, I did not hear it. Sound remained muted, but I never loosened my grip on the half of my world I had left as the horse trotted through the streets.

The hansom lurched to a halt, and I finally let go to hand Mary down to the cobblestones, failing to recognize where we were until the hansom pulled away. A horribly familiar door looked back at me, Baker Street stretching away in either direction, and grief washed over me again.

He should be here, on my other side, bounding forward to open the door for us as he talked about his cases. He should be complaining about Mrs. Hudson wanting to clean his chemistry set, asking after Mary’s most recent trip to the country, describing some _fascinating_ aspect of one of his puzzles. He should be alive.

He was not, however. The world remained muted, any noise vaguely audible at best.

Faintly saying something about Mrs. Hudson waiting for us in the kitchen, Mary grabbed my hand to lead me through the door, and I let her. As painful as it was to see the rooms we had shared for so many years, Mrs. Hudson needed to know that he was—needed to know what had happened.

Familiar footsteps bustled out of the kitchen, and Mrs. Hudson never hesitated as she wrapped me in a hug before waving us into the kitchen, lips moving without sound.

I had never grown skilled at lip reading, but I gathered she already knew, and I was grateful. Perhaps Mycroft had told her. It meant I would not need to find the words.

She pushed me into a chair, and a cup of tea appeared on the table in front of me. I merely stared at it, unable to bring myself to drink—or even to look up at the glances I knew were growing increasingly concerned.

_My fault._

Another piece of the world fell away, and anything more than a blurred awareness of my surroundings went with it. That was alright; it hurt less when I was only peripherally aware. The world could stay blurry for a while.

It would be several weeks before sound began returning, and longer still until I was fully aware once again, but I slowly learned to move on, learned to survive with half of my world shattered at the bottom of a Swiss waterfall. Everything remained partially muted, dull in places it should not be, but I could live with that. It was the price I paid for leaving him, for breaking my promise. I could keep going for Mary—and for the little one that would bless our home in a few months.

Until the day at the cemetery. Walking away from a double funeral, I felt the world fracture around me yet again as sound, color, even the cold wind whipping through my coat faded behind the knowledge that I had failed. My very presence must be a curse, for even refusing to leave her that morning had not saved her or our little one. I had merely listened as first one heartbeat stopped, then the other, and there was nothing I could do.

There was nothing I could do.

_My fault._

_Abandonment._

_Murderer!_

I had no reason to keep going, and months passed as I slipped further, sound and color growing weaker each day. I would not stay here long, would not stay where I was alone but for the ghosts lingering in every alley and memories of laughter waiting in every corner. It was only a miraculous presence in my consulting room that prevented me from disappearing completely, but even then, the silence remained.

The next morning, however, when I woke to find that he was still there, not the dream I had feared all night, some of the sound and color finally started creeping back.


	9. Mischief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Hades Lord of the Dead: Holmes and Watson get competitive

“Watson!”

I smothered a laugh, ducking the pillow flying across the room.

“Maybe you will listen to me next time,” I replied as he scowled, irritated at my most recent prank. I dared to hope this one would successfully end this particular prank war.

After all, he had never managed to tie _me_ to the settee.

“Untie me!”

I could not quite kill an amused grin as he again tried and failed to reach the knots securing his hands and feet to the furniture. I had tied the ropes in such a way that he had plenty of room to move and reach anything on the nearby table, where I had left a pitcher and a glass of water, but he could not reach far enough to release himself. Given enough time, he could probably work his way free, but he was stuck for the moment.

“Why should I?” I asked. “You showed far too much mobility the other day, scattering my things throughout the city, and I heard you down here pacing until early this morning. The rest will do you good.”

Unable to fully hide his own amusement behind irritation, he turned his head, hiding his expression in a cushion as he fought to reach the ends of the rope. I had pulled off a successful—and highly amusing—prank, no matter that he would never admit as much. Even better, he would never be able to turn this around, as I did not sleep heavily enough, nor could he slip a sedative into my drink.

“Doctor?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice faintly carried up the stairs, her timing impeccable as always. “Message for you.”

I pulled myself to my feet, and Holmes’ gaze shot up to stare at me as he realized I was leaving the room.

“Watson!” he said again, though this was more pleading than frustrated. It was as close as he would come to begging me not to leave him.

I made no response, however, chuckling as I moved to peer over the railing.

“Did it work?” she faintly whispered.

I nodded, and her grin matched mine. Holmes had been making an irritant of himself for the last several weeks, and Mrs. Hudson had finally decided to help me in our ongoing prank war after one of them made a mess in her rooms.

“In the kitchen?” I asked for Holmes’ benefit as Mrs. Hudson silently climbed the stairs. “I will be there in a moment.”

Moving just far enough toward the stairs to cover the deception, I stopped talking as Mrs. Hudson turned around at the top, closely—and loudly—approximating my own limping steps on the descent. Using her noise as cover, I quietly moved back toward the sitting room to crouch near the knot I had tied just out of Holmes’ line of sight.

Grumbling sounded from the settee as Holmes fought to work his way free, his muttering probably related to my tying him to the settee and leaving him there. I could not make out most of the words, but I had to smother a laugh when I caught something about “doctors acting like sailors and tying confounded knots in impossible places.”

Something hit the floor with a thump, and he fell silent, perhaps listening to see if I was hurrying back at the noise. He resumed his struggling a moment later as Mrs. Hudson initiated the second half of her part.

Footsteps sounded downstairs, the tapping of my cane mixing with her steps, and she loudly unlatched the door.

“I’ll check on him in a bit,” she said as if I was leaving. “Maybe Lestrade will come by with a case.”

Waiting a few seconds to make Holmes believe he simply could not hear a reply, she latched the door, and her footsteps moved away from the door as Holmes called out again.

“Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!”

My laugh nearly escaped, but her footsteps never faltered, fading back to the kitchen. Holmes’ grumbling renewed, his vocabulary gaining more variety at the idea that I had left the flat, and I could hear him pulling against one rope to reach another. I waited until he relied on the tension to hold himself up before releasing the knot at my feet.

He landed with a thump on the floor, and I peeked through the cracked doorway, fighting to control my laughter.

He had fallen on his side, the ropes quickly loosening to pile around him, and he quickly unfastened the knots on his wrists and picked himself up with a scowl. Following the ropes back to where I had joined them behind the settee, he needed only a moment to realize what I had done, and his gaze shot over to the doorway a moment later, the word coming out very close to a growl.

“Watson!”

I smirked and pushed the door open.

“Maybe you should think twice before you scatter my belongings around the city,” I replied.

“If I have to search your room for my things,” he shot back, untying the knots on his ankles, “why not make you search the city for yours?”

“Because then you get tied to a piece of furniture. I never did find my pipe, you know. I should have left you there longer.”

He scowled at me again but made no reply, inspecting the ropes for another moment before disappearing into his room. He did not go fast enough to hide the amusement lighting his gaze, however. While he had not conceded the prank war, I doubted he would retaliate today.

I settled in my chair with a novel, hoping the eventual retaliation did not sacrifice anything too important. I could not ask him to leave my things alone without forfeiting the prank war—and I was far too competitive for that—but I had no wish for anything else to go missing. This prank war had been going for nearly a month, but a half-written manuscript, a recently bought novel, and my pipe had never reappeared after he apparently swiped them. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would make us stop before he lost something else.

* * *

“Go to bed, Watson.”

I waved him off, smothering a yawn as I did so. “I want to finish this first.”

He frowned at me from his bedroom doorway. He had been moving things around in his room while I worked, and several hours after releasing him from the settee, I had nearly finished rewriting the manuscript he had misplaced. I would never be able to send this off in the morning as I had originally intended, but anything on paper was better than missing or blank sheets. While I knew the original had been superior to this version, I hoped I would at least be able to edit what I had back to something close to what the first had been.

Footsteps sounded, and he leaned over my shoulder a moment later.

“Why are you rewriting that case?”

“Why do you think?” I replied, trying not to growl at the thought. I had never expected him to steal one of my manuscripts, but he had, and I had given up thinking he would return it. I would just have to replace it. It would do neither of us any good for me to remonstrate him.

Silence answered my half rhetorical question, and I wrote another sentence before I continued, “Go to bed. I’ll try to be quiet.”

He lingered behind me for a moment longer, but when I ignored him, he set the tea tray on the table behind me and disappeared into his room. His movements quieted a few minutes later, and I focused on finishing a first draft as the night slipped away.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

The low words roused me, and I found myself slumped over my desk with a stack of papers as a pillow. I pushed myself upright with a faint groan, slowly stretching.

“Awake then, Watson?” Holmes asked from behind me.

I merely grumbled, not yet awake enough to talk as I reorganized my papers into a neat stack. I hated falling asleep at my desk; I was always stiff the next morning.

Holmes made no further comment, though I could feel his gaze on me as I finished at my desk and moved to the table. A cup of coffee appeared at my place, and I nodded my thanks as I sat down and took a drink.

The coffee quickly landed back in the cup as I nearly gagged. He had poured at least a tablespoon of salt into my cup.

“Holmes!”

He smirked, buttering a piece of toast though his gaze never left me. “Good,” he said. “You are awake enough to talk. Are you going to answer my question now?”

I scowled darkly, far from awake enough to banter with him as I set the tainted coffee aside. The coffee in the pot smelled fine, and I poured a fresh cup before taking a cautious sip.

“Which one?” I finally grunted, deciding to use cream instead of sugar today.

“Why were you rewriting your manuscript?”

“You should be able to figure that out yourself,” I muttered, eating quickly and not in the greatest mood. I was still irritated that he had stolen it, I was stiff from sleeping at my desk, and salt in my coffee had been a ruder awakening than I had wanted. It would probably do me good to spend the day out of the flat. Maybe I would take a novel to the park.

“Not enough data.”

I huffed, hurriedly finishing my plate and grabbing a piece of toast to take with me. How was I supposed to proofread a manuscript I no longer had? I needed to leave before I lost my temper while half-asleep. That was never good.

“It is rather hard to edit the first one after you stole it.”

I did not wait for him to reply, detouring to my room to freshen up and choose a book before heading toward the bench I favored. A few hours in the sun would do wonders.

Several hours later, I returned in a much better mood. The day had been wonderfully warm, and a quiet day spent reading a book had quelled most of my lingering irritation, with a good portion of the rest fading behind a stop I had made at a booth up the street. Perhaps I would start editing the rewritten manuscript tonight.

Holmes looked up from his chemistry table as I stepped through the door, seeing with a glance all I had done over the day, and I dug in a pocket.

“Here.”

He barely caught the small object I tossed across the room, and his curiosity disappeared beneath amused irritation when a stream of water hit him in the face. I laughed.

“That’s for the coffee this morning.”

The amusement he could not kill effectively ruined the scowl he directed at me, but he simply wiped away the water as he turned back to his chemistry set. I moved further into the room, setting my finished novel aside and moving to sit in my desk chair.

A stack of papers and a book sat in the middle of my desk under a familiar pipe, and I glanced back up to find Holmes watching me.

“I should have checked that you had recovered everything,” he told me quietly.

I nodded, accepting the apology. “Thank you. Where were they?”

“The novel was with the bookseller, the manuscript was with Mycroft, and Lestrade had your pipe in his office.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He had also hidden several other things from both the sitting room and my bedroom with various people around the city—everyone from the new owner of my former practice to our most recent client. Apparently, that prank had gotten away from him.

“Maybe keep the pranks limited to us?” I suggested, smirking to show him I was no longer irritated.

He nodded. “Here.”

He turned, scooping something from the chemistry table and tossing it to me, and copper flashed in the lamplight to land in my palm. A mite, a coin so small it was rarely of any use, stared back at me, and I looked up at Holmes in surprise. Was he saying what I thought he was saying?

He nodded. He was calling a truce on the prank war, letting me have the win. I grinned and pocketed the coin.

“Go wash that water out of your hair,” I said with a mischievous smirk. “It had dye in it.”

He barked a laugh, trying and failing to scowl at me as he walked into the washroom. If he hurried, maybe he would avoid having a carrot-colored patch of hair in the morning.

“Watson!”

Or maybe not. The shopkeeper _had_ said it was quick acting dye.


	10. Undefinable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt at the end, to avoid spoilers :)

_Drifting._

_I knew a tether connected me to a large, metallic building floating behind me, just as I knew that the strange building was stationed between me and a much larger, glowing orb hanging on nothing, but darkness filled my vision, broken only by pinpricks of light scattered here and there. Where was I?_

_I had no idea, but how to get home was a more important question. I tried to walk, but nothing happened. I reached back to pull on the tether, but, again, nothing changed; the line merely slipped through my grasp. My hands felt huge, bulky, and I looked down to find I wore a strange, full-body covering over my normal clothes that severely hampered my ability to move. I would not be able to leave without help._

_Could I at least not stare at darkness? The orb was beautiful. I would far rather stare at that than at the nearly unbroken darkness, but every attempt to turn failed. I was stuck, floating in nothing, staring at darkness, unable to leave._

_It was amazingly quiet. Absolute silence met anything I did, anything I said. I could not even hear the scratching rustle of rubbing my fingers together inside the strange covering I wore. How had I gotten here?_

_A faint memory came forward: of being trapped, of waiting for rescue, of trying to stay awake._

_Was I dreaming? I could be, I supposed. This would not be the first time I had been aware of dreaming in the midst of the dream, but from where had this strange dream come? And how could I break out of it?_

_I glanced back towards the building, where a familiar silhouette seemed to wave at me despite the impossibility. The building had no visible windows._

_I would find no help there, and I looked around again. Nothing had changed. I was still tethered to that strange building. Pinpricks of light still broke the otherwise pitch darkness. Silence still reigned. It was rather peaceful here. Perhaps I would be alright with staying for a while._

_Something abruptly hit me in the chest, sending me spinning in slow circles though I could not figure out what had hit me. The tether snapped taut, pulling me slowly, and I grew ever closer to the building as another weight slammed into my chest._

_That one pushed me_ towards _the building rather than in a seemingly random direction, and I wondered what was hitting me and why. It didn’t hurt—not really—but it was uncomfortable, a sudden, distinct pressure on my sternum that shoved me around._

_The impact came again, driving my back firmly into that metallic building, and the discomfort in my chest changed to warmth. What was going on?_

_The warmth slowly spread through my chest, down my arms, down my legs, and then into my face._

_I gasped._

_I gasped, and it was only after I gasped that I realized the warmth had settled into a rhythm, centered in my chest. A heartbeat._

_My mouth opened again, and air moved. A heavy sigh of relief filtered through the bulky covering to reach my ears._

_“Thank you,” a voice breathed. Who was speaking?_

_Air moved again, rushing through my open mouth and into my chest before some of it seeped back out. Another, lighter pressure on my chest pushed the rest out, and the pressure released to let me inhale again, the gasps also beginning to settle into a rapid but steady rhythm._

_“Yes. That is it. Open your eyes, now.”_

_The metal building beside me let out a thump, and a door slid open, inviting me inside as the line tugged a question. The impossible silhouette appeared again, waving at me to hurry up. Behind me held that glorious view. Before me rested a strange unknown. Should I go in?_

_Something told me I could come back if I chose, but once I chose to stay, the door would not reopen. I clumsily pulled myself toward the door._

“Watson?”

The voice filtered hazily into my awareness, and I stifled a groan when my head pounded in response. Where was I?

“Can you hear me?”

I slowly became aware of a hand gripping mine, and the rest of my body regained sensation as the hand squeezed tighter.

“Come on, Watson. Open your eyes.”

No. Better to go back to sleep. Why did my head hurt so much?

“Watson?”

Holmes. What happened?

“Open your eyes, Watson.”

I probably should, if he was going to let that much worry leak into the words, but I wanted to go back to sleep. My head hurt, and I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. What had I done?

An image came to mind: a wardrobe in an unused bedroom, containing only a few coats and a couple of pairs of shoes. I had been searching the interior, looking for the compartment Holmes insisted was hidden in the back corner, when a board creaked behind me and a hand shoved me in, locking the door before I could turn around.

Another hand joined the first, wrapping around my limp fingers, and I slowly managed to open my eyes.

A familiar face leaned over me, gradually coming into focus enough for me to recognize Holmes. I struggled to focus completely, however, and the worry in his searching gaze changed to stark fear when I looked through him.

“Look at me!”

I blinked, and my eyes finally focused, first on the ceiling behind him, then on his face. Some of the fear faded.

“Holmes.” Relief washed his expression, and he seemed to relax minutely as I tried to look at my surroundings. “What happened?” I asked as he helped me sit up, making it easier to breathe. I still fought for air, barely a step below gasping.

“You were not in our rooms when I returned,” he answered, studying me as I realized I was on the ground in the otherwise empty bedroom. “I found you locked in the wardrobe.”

“Pushed,” I told him shortly, my somewhat sluggish thoughts only belatedly supplying that he would have known that. How else would the wardrobe be locked from the outside? “The air was going stale.”

He nodded, remembered terror lighting his eyes as his hand renewed its grip on mine. One finger found a pulse point and stayed there. “I am glad you taught me that resuscitation technique,” he said simply.

My dream came to mind, recalling the pressure, the impacts, and I knew what he meant. My dream had mirrored Holmes’ actions. The impacts had been chest compressions. The lighter pressure had been artificial breathing.

I had been dead. No wonder he was still staring at me as if I was going to disappear.

“I’m fine, Holmes,” I said after a moment, squeezing the hand gripping mine before using the contact to pull myself shakily to my feet. “You brought me back.”

The room dipped as I gained my feet, and Holmes’ other hand landed on my arm, steadying me.

“Are you sure?” Worried grey eyes noted how unsteadily I walked, how heavily I still breathed, and I tried to inject a bit of humor.

“That you brought me back?” I checked my own pulse, and he affected a scowl even as amusement and relief lit his gaze.

“That you are alright,” he chided, turning me down the hall towards our rooms.

I nodded firmly, ignoring the way the room dipped again with the movement. The vertigo would pass once I caught my breath, and a meal and a rest would set me to rights.

He opened the door to our rooms, depositing me in a chair next to the fireplace before quickly building up the fire, and only then did I realize how cold I was. I shivered, tugging a blanket free from the back of the chair, and he looked away from the dancing flames to stare at me. His keen gaze saw everything from the shiver I could not hide to how I awkwardly draped the blanket over my shoulders.

“What do you need?”

“A warm drink would probably be a good idea,” I admitted, trying to conceal how short of breath the longer sentence had rendered me. It was taking an annoyingly long time to catch my breath, and I wondered how long I had been trapped. I could not have stopped breathing for long, or he would not have been able to revive me, but I felt sure I had fought to break free for at least thirty minutes before the failing air had forced me to still.

Scribbling a note on a scrap of paper and pocketing the pencil, he stepped to the door as footsteps sounded in the hall, and I faintly heard him ask the passing landlord for hot tea “or whatever warm drink he could find.”

“Of course, sir,” was the man’s reply. “Give me just a moment. A man informed me that he heard someone calling for help from the empty room.”

“Who told you that?” Holmes’ voice had hardened. We had found very few leads so far in our hunt for the man harassing a pair of sisters, and only the culprit could have known I was trapped.

The man dithered, saying something about needing to go help, and I heard Holmes take a step closer.

“The call for help they reported came from my friend,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “and I barely found him in time. Only the one who trapped him could have known he was there. _Who told you that?”_

I could not make out the reply, but he must have stammered a name, as Holmes took a step back.

“A hot drink and a meal for two,” he ordered over the sound of crackling paper, “and send this to Inspector Wright.”

The landlord’s footsteps faded back toward the lobby, and Holmes stepped back through the door, quickly kneeling in front of me when he saw how deeply I inhaled.

“I’m fine, Holmes,” I said again, forcing a smile to ease the worry in his gaze. “Seriously.”

“You are still short of breath,” he replied, frowning.

“I apparently need to make up for the few minutes I went without,” I replied pawkily, inhaling every few words. I had never liked feeling so short of breath. “Stop worrying, Holmes,” I continued, “I don’t know how long I was trapped in there, but I know it was a while.” I paused again. My breathing was slowing gradually, but too many words in a row still winded me. “I found a small crack in the wood I could just barely breathe through, so the air grew very stale before I fell asleep.”

His frown eased only minutely. He knew just as well as I did that prolonging consciousness in that manner had kept me alive long enough for him to reach me, but it also meant I would feel its effects longer. My breathing was growing closer to normal, however, and he merely studied me instead of replying, seating himself in the opposite chair. By the time a knock sounded on our door, I was feeling much better.

Holmes set the tray on the table between us, passing me a plate of food and a cup so I would not have to get up, and, though he stared at me more than he ate, only the sounds of the cutlery broke the silence for several minutes.

“Do you remember anything?”

The question was quiet, an almost hesitant curiosity that refused to stifle, and I glanced up from the last few bites on my plate.

“From when I was—?” I let the question trail off, but he still did not quite smother a flinch.

“Yes.”

“I had the strangest dream.” I set my fork down, more interested in his reaction than the last few bites on my plate. “I was tethered to the strangest building I’ve ever seen, one that floated in the middle of dark nothing. A glorious blue orb floated behind the building, also hanging on nothing, but I faced away from them both, staring for the longest time out into a darkness broken only by pinpricks of light. It was absolutely silent. Any noise I tried to make disappeared before I could hear it. I could not turn around, nor could I pull myself toward the building. I was stuck, floating in silence.”

I readjusted in my chair, unsure how many details he wanted, and he frowned in thought. “Did anything ever happen?”

I nodded, slowly explaining how the dream had unfolded, how the last thing I remembered was pulling myself into the building. The description lasted several minutes, and I took a drink of my tea when I finally finished, glad the many words had not left me breathless as I watched to see what reaction he would show.

He said nothing for a long minute, his frown deepening as he considered my words. “Did you see the drawing Conrad gave me yesterday?”

Conrad was our contact at the observatory, but I had not known about a drawing. I said as much, and he pulled himself to his feet, retrieving a paper tucked into a corner and handing it to me.

“Does this look familiar?”

My breath caught in my throat. I had never seen this drawing or any like it before, but pinpricks of light stared at me from a blanket of darkness.

Down to the related locations of each spot of light, it matched exactly the view in my dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From sirensbane: Watson in space  
> Can anyone guess what the "building" might be?


	11. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Domina Temporis: A family dinner

“Eat your asparagus, John.”

I poked at the limp rope on my plate instead of taking a bite. “Martha is wrong,” I finally announced, “eating something repeatedly does not make one acquire a taste for it. Asparagus is disgusting.”

“Here, here!”

Mother looked away from me to frown at Harry’s castle, one made primarily of asparagus. “How many times must I tell you not to play with your food?”

“As many times as we have to tell you that we don’t like asparagus,” he shot back when he saw that she was not truly angry. The playfulness behind the words showed their irreverent rather than disrespectful nature, and I knew it was safe to laugh when amusement appeared in Father’s expression.

“I suppose we could light them on fire,” I said with a grin. “They do look remarkably similar to Father’s cigars.”

“Taste like them too,” Harry quipped, also grinning widely.

“How do you know that?” Father asked.

“I stole one, of course,” was Harry’s easy reply. “You said I could have one when I turned sixteen, and then you were conveniently out of the house.” He pulled a face. “I don’t understand why you like them.”

Father chuckled. “You may change your mind when you get older.”

Disbelief laced Harry’s answering shrug, but he said nothing, and the topic turned to other things.

* * *

“Supper is ready, Sherlock.”

His brother never looked up from the chemistry set their parents had given him for Christmas. “Not hungry.”

Mycroft frowned. “You said that for breakfast and dinner as well. How can you not be hungry?”

Sherlock shrugged, his attention focused on the beaker in his hand, and Mycroft tried again.

“Cook roasted a turkey today.”

The hand froze, and Mycroft continued, “and there are tarts for dessert.”

Sherlock hesitated a moment longer before putting away his supplies with a sigh. “Fine.”

Mycroft smirked but said nothing, leading the way toward the dining room.

“Nice of you to join us, Sherlock,” Father said as they took their seats. “What has you so captivated as to skip meals?”

“Chemistry experiment,” Sherlock said quickly, the reply short but respectful, “the object of which both you and Mother would say is an inappropriate topic for the table.”

Mycroft looked down at his plate to hide his amusement. Sherlock despised discussing his chemistry experiments with anyone, especially their parents, and after a similar question had resulted in a discussion of the differences between animal blood and human, stealing their parents’ appetites, he had started using the answer any time they asked him at the table. Father could not even remonstrate him for it, on the chance that he was being truthful.

“Have you been doing that all day?” Father asked, not trusting that feigned innocence.

Sherlock nodded, swallowing a bite before adding, “Except for early this morning, when Mycroft let me borrow his violin.”

It was harder to hide his amusement that time. He had not exactly _allowed_ his brother to borrow his violin, but he also could not claim to care that Sherlock had stolen it. He had returned it unharmed almost before Mycroft had noticed it missing, and Mycroft had never taken to the instrument anyway. Their parents could have done a better job at deciding which instrument each of them would learn.

“Why did you not practice your bass?” Father asked.

“The violin is better.”

Their mother had been silently watching this exchange, gaze flicking to whomever was speaking, but Sherlock’s reply was so direct, so matter of fact, that understanding lit her gaze.

“Would you prefer to learn the violin?” she asked, gently breaking into their father’s irritated reply.

Sherlock nodded quickly, his affirmative abundantly clear even with his mouth full.

“You can have mine,” Mycroft told him. He never used it, anyway.

“Seriously?”

The question was surprised, nearly incredulous, and he nodded. A large grin split Sherlock’s face. “Do you want the bass?”

Mycroft thought about that. The bass was a larger instrument, one played similarly to a violin but with the instrument resting on the floor. He might prefer the seated position over the work that went into holding the violin correctly, and he nodded again.

Father finally let a chuckle escape, deciding to be amused rather than irritated. He had been arguing with them for ages about learning an instrument, refusing to listen to Mycroft about his disinterest in the violin, then to Sherlock’s dislike of the bass. Perhaps he had taken the lack of interest in the individual instruments as a lack of interest in instruments in general.

“I will inform your tutors in the morning,” he told them. “Please try not to frustrate them as you did the first time around.”

“But it’s fun!” Sherlock sputtered, eleven-year-old mischief in every word.

Mycroft allowed a smile to escape. No matter his age, Sherlock had managed to find the delicate balance between warranted solemnity and irreverent playfulness, and Mycroft hoped he never lost it.

“Their frustration when you both flawlessly learned the scales overnight after over a fortnight of refusing suggests otherwise,” Father replied, obviously trying to be stern, “not to mention his reaction to the frog you put in his tea.”

Sherlock scowled. “I told you I had nothing to do with that.”

“Then why did you laugh when he quickly spit the tea back into the cup and ran from the room?”

“It was funny!” he protested. “He had been going on about ‘proper decorum when near the instruments,’ and then he did that! You would’ve laughed too!”

“Not likely.”

Mycroft lowered his head, fighting to hide his amusement. He had been present for that lesson, and it _had_ been highly entertaining. The bass instructor was an old music professor from the nearby university, and while Sherlock’s intellect easily matched that of an adult, the instructor had had no idea what to do with his very boyish mischief. While Father was not as serious as he was trying to portray, however, he was not amused enough to risk voicing such a thing. It was better Mycroft stayed silent.

Besides, nobody needed to know that _Mycroft_ had brought the frog, hoping to lighten Sherlock’s frustration after a very long couple of days.

Sherlock pouted but made no reply, and Mother turned the conversation to a gathering scheduled for next week.

* * *

I ignored the call for supper, no more interested in food than I was in leaving my room. Pitying stares followed me whenever I did, wherever I went, wordlessly announcing that I was half-crippled, a cast-off old soldier for which even the Army had no use. I was not yet thirty, yet I felt antiquated, useless.

I needed to get out of this hovel, dirty, dilapidated set of rooms as it was. My surroundings were affecting my thoughts, but where would I go? I could not go home, to that large, familiar house in the rambling countryside where I had grown up and that I had expected Harry to keep waiting for me, nor could I go to Martha, our housekeeper who had become second mother to us both. Even she did not know what had sent Harry to drink while I was away, but he had sold the house, and though Martha had insisted I stay with her, I had not stayed long. I could not live in a town where I knew my brother sat in the local tavern, too drunk to recognize me. My injury and convalescence meant I could not even treat patients. I had no home, no remaining family, and no purpose.

Martha had saved some of my things from the auction that had sold the house, mostly books and my viola, and I stared at that viola now, sitting in its open case on my bed. It seemed to mock me, sitting silently like that. I wished I could play it, wished I could make the strings sing as I use to, but I could not. My injury had weakened my shoulder, and I could not even hold my precious instrument no matter how I tried to support it. The silent strings seemed to scream in tandem with my thoughts.

_Crippled. Unwanted. Useless._

I pulled myself out of my chair, using my cane to maintain my balance as I roughly closed the case and hid it before I left the building. It was growing dangerous to stay here.

* * *

“Sherlock, are you going to eat?”

Silence answered him, and he peered into the darkened bedroom. He did not like how quiet Sherlock had been since the funeral.

“Sherlock?”

Again there was no answer, and he lit a candle, confirming the room was empty before closing the door. He knew where his brother had gone.

A creek bubbled through a shallow valley behind the house, and his brother sat on a rock nearby, his back to the path. Mycroft took a seat next to him.

“Supper is on the table,” he finally said when Sherlock remained quiet.

His brother’s gaze remained locked on the water trickling over the pebbles.

“Sherlock?”

An animal moved in a nearby tree, but there was no other answer, and he moved to look at his brother’s face.

A hollow, broken gaze stared through him, the grief Sherlock had been hiding having finally taken over his thoughts.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

Barely four days had passed since their parents’ deaths, and he had yet to see his brother grieve. Twelve was far too early to lose one’s parents.

Neither of them had ever cared for physical contact, but Sherlock did not protest when Mycroft resumed his seat, wrapping an arm around the smaller boy and pulling him close.

“Can you hear me?”

His brother leaned against him in wordless response.

“It is alright to grieve,” he said.

Sherlock’s eyes remained perfectly dry and heartbreakingly empty, and Mycroft tried again.

“Let it out, Sherlock.”

“Can’t.”

Mycroft forced himself not to react to the nearly strangled word, continuing to move his hand in a soothing motion up and down his brother’s arm.

“Why not?”

“Interconnected,” came the almost detached reply. “I will go with it.”

“I will catch you.”

Sherlock shook his head, the intense grief in his gaze already fading as he boxed it up for another time. “How can you do that when you miss them, too?”

“That is what brothers are for. Let it out, little brother. I will catch you.”

Sherlock shook his head again, and Mycroft realized he might soon have another loss to grieve.

His brother would not remain the mischievous, playful, smart, serious boy he had been if he continued like this.

* * *

“Doctor! Supper is on the table!”

“Coming!”

Quickly grabbing the reason I had come up here, I hurried back to the sitting room and took my seat at the table.

“I thought you said Sherlock is the one that is always late,” Mycroft rumbled, amused at the ill-timed trip to my room.

I smirked. “So you would prefer I did not share this?”

A bottle of Australian red wine landed with a thump in the middle of the table, and pleasure lit Holmes’ gaze.

“Is that from your uncle?”

I nodded, grinning. I had stayed at my uncle’s vineyard for a year as a child, and we had continued occasional contact even after I had moved back to the island and the aphids had destroyed the crops. When production had resumed shortly after my return from abroad, he had sent us a bottle to try, and Holmes and I had thoroughly enjoyed it. Since then, a bottle arrived two or three times a year, and I had been saving this one for today.

“There should be enough for everyone to have a glass. Are you going to try some, Mrs. Hudson?”

She looked up from eyeing the bottle, grinning. “Of course. Lizzie would never forgive me if I turned down the chance to try an Australian wine.”

“Didn’t you say your sister considered moving there for a while?” I asked, taking the plate Holmes offered and dishing myself some meat before holding it for her.

She shook her head. “Never seriously, and that was before we lost Jenny. Lizzie is content to dream about traveling. I doubt she would know what to do with herself outside of London.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” I replied, trying to smother a laugh.

Holmes scowled at me around a bite. “That is not true.”

That laugh broke free. “No, I suppose not,” I replied, grinning, “but it was at one time.”

He had never enjoyed leaving “his city,” much preferring to stay in the area he knew so well, and while his three-year disappearance had shown him he _could_ travel, he still rarely left London unless I went with him.

He huffed at me, feigning irritation, but turned to Mycroft instead of replying.

“I hear you have been offered knighthood again,” he said with a faint grin.

“Who told you that?”

Holmes brushed off the question, completely immune to the near-growl Mycroft had used. “Someone high enough to listen but low enough to forget to keep his mouth shut. Are you going to take it this time?”

“Of course not. You know I have no more interest in the title than you do, Sherlock.”

“Wait,” I broke in before Holmes could respond, hearing more in that reply than I had expected. “You were offered knighthood?! When?”

Holmes squirmed, casting an irritated glance at Mycroft’s smug look.

“The blueprint case last month was the most recent,” he finally answered quietly.

“And you turned it _down?_ ” I replied. “Holmes!”

He tried to wave me off. “I can hardly accept the honor when I was not the one to solve it.”

“I certainly did not solve it.”

“You are the one that realized the chemistry equipment was to reveal invisible ink,” he replied. “We would not have trapped Conwell without it.”

“That was only one small part. You put the pieces together.”

“A pivotal part,” he corrected quickly, “and there was only one name on the offer. These are _our_ cases, Watson, not mine. We have been over this.”

I scowled at him, trying to hide the relief that washed over me every time he asserted that. There had been a time when I had thought he wanted me to keep my distance, when I thought he would be safer without me around. It had taken him many years to prove otherwise, and I was forever grateful that he had done so. There was nowhere else I would rather be.

“The food is delicious, Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said into the resulting silence.

I tore my gaze away from Holmes to agree. A Christmas goose as well as almost every side dish I could name—and a few I could not—nearly covered the table, with several desserts on a side table for later. I had helped with some of it, but she had done most of the work. It truly was an amazing spread.

“Thank you,” she replied, but movement caught my eye before she could continue.

“Holmes!”

He looked up guiltily, caught wrist-deep in the goose and apparently exploring the cavity.

“You better not have hidden another surprise in there this year,” Mrs. Hudson told him sternly.

“This year?”

I turned away from scowling at Holmes to answer Mycroft. “Two years ago, Holmes decided that Christmas was boring, so last year he shoved a quail into the goose and tried to make us believe the bird had been carrying young when it was killed. He nearly had Lestrade convinced before I asked him where goslings came from.”

Mycroft did not bother checking his chuckle, and Holmes removed his hand from the bird, wiping the juice on a nearby napkin.

“The Duchess lost a diamond last week,” he said in explanation.

“You cannot seriously believe that would happen twice.”

“You really need to work on your story-telling skills.”

My gaze snapped over to where Mrs. Hudson stared at him, a grin trying to twitch her mouth. We had spoken at the same time, but it took me only a moment to realize what she had said—and what she meant.

“Holmes! Christmas presents do _not_ belong in the goose!”

Surprise lit her expression that the diamond was hers, but Holmes’ reply preempted conversation for several minutes. I thoroughly enjoyed bickering with Holmes, though I did wonder at the pleasure that crossed Mycroft’s face as he listened.

I doubted he would tell me, even if I found the words to ask.


	12. A Lesson in Projectiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Michael JG Meathook: Watson questions their use of guns.

I froze in the doorway, bags in hand as I stared at Holmes.

“What are you building?”

He did not even look up. “Nothing of import.”

When I had left to run an errand, he had been pacing and thinking over his latest case, but now he sat at his desk, intently rigging something out of scrap pieces of wood, a tube, and rubber strings leftover from one of the factories. A small container of marbles sat on a nearby table.

Holmes despised doing anything simply to stay busy; whatever he built had _some_ import, and I rarely found it a good thing when he refused to describe it. I said nothing, however, setting the reason for my errand on my desk before going up to my room to change clothes.

Holmes was still in the chair when I came back down, though the marbles were no longer on the table, and I wondered what he was planning as I made my way towards my chair. His most recent case was at one of the factories, I knew, but what that had to do with the handheld contraption he seemed to be building I had no idea. He had not shared the details of this case with me.

I was two steps from the door when he moved quickly, and a small, white object shot towards me. I reacted without consciously noting the projectile, and a marble hit the wall behind me with a resounding thump.

“Holmes!”

He glanced at me, lining his marble shooter up for another shot.

“Hold still, Watson. I need you to tell me how fast these are flying.”

I barely dodged another marble. “Fast enough to bruise,” I retorted. “I am not going to let you shoot me. What is that for?”

He lowered his weapon slightly, but I took another step away from him, adjusting to put part of a chair between us. I did not trust him not to keep trying.

“Well?” I asked when he remained quiet.

He huffed in frustration, finally relaxing his homemade gun from a ready position. “The Yard thinks my factory case is an accident, but there is a catwalk above where the man was found.”

“What does a marble gun have to do with it?”

“The factory makes ball bearings,” he replied, “among other things, and the man was found with several on the floor around him.”

“You think someone shot him with a ball bearing?”

“It is possible, but I need to know whether the bearings would do the damage I saw. The factory uses these long rubber bands everywhere. I have already found that the more I use, the faster the marble flies, but I do not know if several bands would propel it fast enough.”

“I can tell you right now that it is possible to send a marble flying hard enough to hurt someone badly.”

“Not enough,” he replied, shaking his head. “I need to know how many bands they used before I can set the trap. One would need at least five, I would think, depending on where the bearing hit, and this only has one. It should serve as a good baseline to prove or disprove my theory.”

He aimed the gun again, and I put the door between us. “You are not shooting me with that thing. I don’t care how many bands you have on it.”

He sighed. “Fine. You shoot me, then.”

He tossed the scrap gun across the room, and I stepped out from behind the door to catch it. He had used the tube as a handle, attaching the wood scraps along the sides to form a space between the opposite ends. A thick rubber band stretched across the space, with room to add several more around it.

“I rather doubt you want to be shot with this thing, either,” I told him. This was not some child’s pea shooter.

He waved me off, standing to give me a clear target. “I need to know what the bearings would do, and a marble is similar in size and weight.”

I glanced between him and the small projectile. Harry had shot me with something similar when we were children, and the welts had hurt for days. Holmes did not know what he was asking.

“Hurry up, Watson. I need to take the results to the Yard soon.”

I sighed. He was not going to like this, but I took aim at his thigh.

* * *

“Stop complaining, Holmes. I warned you it would hurt.”

He grimaced, carefully inspecting the large, bruising welt on his leg with a gentle finger.

“You did not say it would cause such a welt,” he grumbled. “Why did you hit me there?”

“Because marbles are heavy enough that aiming at your arm could have broken the bone,” I told him. “Did your brother never hit you with a pea shooter?”

He shook his head. “If Mycroft ever considered such a thing, he outgrew it before I reached an age to be a target, and I never cared for such trifles. I found trouble in other ways.”

I glanced up from my novel. “Like?”

He waved me off, and I huffed. Someday, I would get him to share some of those stories. Knowing him now, it was hard for me to imagine him as a mischievous boy.

He grimaced again and readjusted in his chair. “Did you have to hit me where I must feel it whenever I sit down?”

I smirked. “At the distance I stood, you would have felt it every time you moved no matter where I hit you. Hitting you there meant there was only soft tissue to bruise.”

He huffed at me but made no reply. He captured the culprit a few days later, though I did notice the welt bothered him for nearly a week.

Maybe next time he would think twice about telling me to shoot him with something—especially after I so vehemently refused to let him shoot me.


	13. Christmas Battles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Domina Temporis: Write something funny involving a turkey, an official occasion, a misbehaving dog, and Scotland Yard

"Everything smells amazing, Lestrade. Who did the cooking?"

"Not me," the inspector answered with a chuckle. "We had everything here catered from a local restaurant."

We were setting up for the Yard’s Christmas party. Food filled the table, more than enough to feed the crowd milling through the other end of the room, and I was helping with the final touches before everyone could eat.

I grinned, moving a dish to its place on the table. "That would be easier than dividing the cooking among houses."

"Liz and Gregson's wife led the petition,” he answered. “They knew who would end up doing the work."

"I cannot blame them," I replied, scanning the table in search of something else that needed doing. "I frequently help Mrs. Hudson prepare Christmas dinner, and every year I am amazed at how much work goes into it."

"Is Mr. Holmes going to be here this year?"

I glanced up from setting out a serving spoon. "Eventually, I think. You know how little he cares about parties and gatherings.”

Lestrade’s huff of laughter was nearly a snort. “Regular Scrooge, he is. I don’t know how you put up with him, Doctor.”

I merely smiled, remembering the revenge I had pulled last year after he tried to make the Christmas party end early. “I have my ways, and he has _some_ Christmas spirit—when it suits him.”

“Didn’t you say he decorated the sitting room for you once?”

My smile widened at the memory. That had been our third Christmas sharing rooms, and my injuries had prevented me from doing much of anything that year.

“He did,” I affirmed, “and he got the Irregulars to help by telling them that they were ‘helping Father Christmas.’ I woke up to find that the season had come alive around me.”

Lestrade shook his head at the imagery. “He’s a strange one. He doesn’t go out of his way to dislike the other holidays. It’s almost like he ties this holiday to something unpleasant.”

I froze, considering the possibility. I knew almost nothing about his past, his childhood, but what little I did know suddenly came together to form a heartbreaking picture. Could it be—?

“Perhaps.” It would not do to discuss this with Lestrade. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

He shook his head. “Go ahead and let everyone start the line. I will have this finished in a moment, and we can eat.”

“The others will be glad to hear that.” Lestrade’s chuckle barely carried as I moved away to ring the bell the Yard used to signal the start of a meal.

The crowd moved toward me, and I hurried ahead, claiming a spot in line behind Lestrade. Those who helped set up the meal always went through the line first, and that was one benefit I would not forfeit. The best dishes were invariably gone by the time the end of the line reached the tables.

Conversation flowed around me, each small group continuing what they had been discussing as plate after plate filled with holiday treats. The Scotland Yard Christmas party always had a hearty meal, but this was the largest I had seen by far. Every conceivable main course, side dish, and dessert lay somewhere on the long table. There would be plenty left over to take both to anyone who could not make it to the party and to the less fortunate.

“There you are, Watson.”

I glanced up as Holmes appeared at my side, his plate less than full but far from empty as he evidently skipped portions of the table to catch up to where I stood.

“I see you finally decided to show up, just in time to skip the line.”

He smirked at me, snacking from his plate even as he dished a spoonful of a casserole. “Of course. Their caterer is famous for their desserts.”

“So that is why you carefully blocked off half your plate.”

He made no answer, but his smirk still twitched his mouth as he moved down the line toward the as-yet untouched dessert table. I picked up my pace. Holmes had enough of a sweet tooth to easily clean out the desserts before anyone else got one.

“Holmes.”

He froze, guiltily looking up from cutting a fourth piece of cake. The half he had blocked off already had a pudding and three other cakes blending into each other. The fourth would have had to stack on top.

I scowled at him, and he put the cake cutter down with a sigh.

“Come back after the line is done.”

“It will be gone by then!” he protested, but I refused to back down.

“Then you should have gotten that one instead of one of the others on your plate. We have discussed this, Holmes. Do not hoard the desserts.”

He scowled at me but made no reply, and I filled the remaining spot on my plate with a slice of pie and moved toward a nearby table, Holmes barely a step behind me.

“Sit down, Holmes,” I said when he hovered, watching the line moving down the tables. “By the time you finish, you might be able to go for more dessert.”

He sat heavily in a chair, torn between scowling at me for thwarting him and studying the slowly diminishing dessert table, and I covered a smirk. Some meals could be a veritable battle just to get him to eat, while others saw him clean a plate and go back for thirds. I had long known my friend was a study in extremes.

He finally started eating, however, and I turned to my own food. We would have to try this restaurant sometime. If their normal dishes were as good as what they catered, the meal would be well worth the distance from the flat.

“How long are you staying?” he finally asked several minutes later, when only a few bites remained on my plate.

I shrugged. “Probably a couple of hours.”

Holmes glanced away, covering a frown. He had promised to stay as long as I did once he arrived, something he probably regretted. I had never understood what he so disliked about a yearly Christmas party.

“You remembered your gift for the exchange later?” I asked.

The frown faded as he nodded, and I eyed him across the table. He was planning something.

“I see you finally made it, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade’s voice said before I could form the question. “Did you raid the dessert table yet?”

“I intervened,” I answered, glancing at where Lestrade stood behind me as Holmes scowled. “He only got three pieces of cake and some pudding this time.”

Lestrade smirked at my tone. “The others appreciate it, I’m sure.”

Holmes opened his mouth to reply, but a commotion from the other side of the room drew Lestrade away.

“What are you planning?”

He pretended to study the crowd. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Holmes.”

He waved me off, standing to tour the room, and I put my plate away with a sigh. I would just have to watch him. I hoped he was not trying to make the party end early again.

People slowly migrated away from the tables toward the stack of gifts in the corner, knowing that the gift exchange was next, and I followed. I had contributed a penny dreadful and a copy of a recently released novel, and I wondered which package I would receive. We never drew names, everyone content to bring something vague, and each package was only labelled well enough to make sure someone did not open their own.

I glanced over the pile, trying to decide which was Holmes’. He had not wrapped his in front of me, but I thought I might be able to pick it out anyway.

_Yip!_

I spun around, searching for the source of the sound. Holmes better not have—

I saw nothing amiss. People mingled here and there. The last stranglers finished their plates. Holmes watched everything from his place in one corner.

I turned back to surveying the packages. Could it be that strangely small one?

_Yip!_

I looked over just in time to catch Holmes shush his pocket, and I hurried across the room.

“Holmes.”

He did not quite smother a start, apparently not hearing me come up behind him, and the feigned innocence in his gaze when he glanced up only irritated me more.

“What are you planning?” I nearly growled.

He hesitated for a moment, then sighed, waving me out of easy sight of the rest of crowd before opening his jacket pocket.

A small head quickly poked out to look at me, tongue wagging in doggy joy.

“Yip!”

He shushed it. “Gregson is giving it to his wife tonight,” he said, “but the mischievous little…” he trailed off, obviously choosing a different word, “dog refuses to stay quiet or still. He asked me to help with the surprise, and it gives me an excuse to stay away from the crowd.”

I chuckled. The tiny dog could not be more than a few weeks old, to fit in Holmes’ pocket so easily, and I wiggled my fingers for it to chase.

“Be sure you take it outside every hour or so,” I told him. “Puppies take a while to house train.”

He eyed the little dog. “You could take it.”

I shook my head, hiding a grin. “Its—his,” I corrected with a glance, “care was entrusted to you, and I doubt you will have to wait long. Just make sure you note if he starts trying to get out of your pocket. Here.” I handed him a piece of string I had in my jacket. “You can use this as a leash if needed.”

He took it, uncertainty showing in his gaze as he realized what might happen, but I would not rescue him. The image of the tiny puppy playing in Holmes’ pocket was far too amusing to end. He resumed his place next to the wall as I moved back toward the gift table.

“Alright, everyone!” Conversation slowly quieted, everyone turning to face where Lestrade, as this year’s organizer, stood in front of the gift pile. “Form two lines. Gregson, you said you would help with this.”

Gregson made his way to the front, and the rest of us moved into place, Holmes and I taking the back of the line. A simpler way to distribute the gifts than passing them out one at a time, especially since none were addressed, Lestrade and Gregson gave each gift to the front of the line, who passed them back until everyone had one.

“Yip!”

Holmes tried to hide behind me, and I covered a smirk as I passed a gift to him and fingered the one in my hand.

With a pause to ensure no one had received their own, the lines broke up as everyone moved to open their gift, and exclamations filled the room.

“Ha! I needed a new pipe!”

“Oh, that is lovely.”

“My son will love this book.”

The paper in my hand peeled away from a long, narrow rectangle, and I opened the box to find a pouch of the tobacco Holmes favored.

“Watson.”

I glanced up, my laughter escaping when Holmes showed me a new fountain pen.

“Trade?” he asked, smothering his own amusement.

I nodded, pocketing the pen and handing him the tobacco. “When are you helping Gregson?” I asked quietly.

“He said he would find me after the gift exchange.”

“Yip! Grr!”

Ducking my head to hide my laugh, I led Holmes toward one of the tables. Perhaps the dog would calm if we moved away from the crowd.

Holmes detoured past the food, putting a piece of pie on one of the dessert plates as I took a seat, and a head poked out of his pocket, sniffing.

“Holmes!”

My warning came too late, and I lunged out of my seat. Holmes barely had the chance to cushion the dog’s fall with his leg before the puppy hit the floor running, and the little dog ran straight for a chair someone had left beside the main tables, reaching the food in two quick jumps and amazing me that such a little dog could jump so high.

Holmes’ pie landed roughly on the dessert table, and he reached the dog a step ahead of me, lifting it away from the turkey plate.

“Bad dog!”

The dog made no answer, refusing to release the piece of turkey he had stolen before Holmes reached him, and I tried not to laugh.

“Since when do you have a dog?”

I turned around to find Liz Lestrade standing behind me, a smile spitting her face at the picture Holmes made with a puppy grasped in one hand.

“We don’t,” I answered, unable to hide my own grin. “Holmes was holding it for someone, though I do not see him holding it for much longer.”

Gregson hurried forward on the heels of my words, taking the completely unrepentant little pup from Holmes’ hand. The dog went without protest, still gnawing on the piece of meat it had stolen, and Gregson moved back through the crowd.

“Stanley! You mean to say the dog is mine?!”

I glanced over to find embarrassment and surprise mixing on Mrs. Gregson’s face as her husband carefully handed her the dog. She gingerly held him close, surrendering her finger to be licked when the dog finished eating the meat.

“He is adorable!”

“Well, she seems to like it, anyway.” Holmes walked up behind me, an empty plate in his hand showing signs of two different desserts. “Shall we?”

I huffed. “I suppose you emptied the dessert table?”

He shrugged off the question. “There was very little remaining. We stayed for the gift exchange. Can we leave now?”

I glanced back at the crowd, most of which was currently gathered around the puppy. Lestrade had mentioned some party games for later, but the little dog seemed to have _become_ the party game.

There was no use staying longer, and I nodded. He gave an exaggerated sigh of relief, quickly leading me towards the door lest I change my mind.

“What do you say we get a puppy?”

His growled answer barely carried back to my ears, and I merely grinned, no more repentant than the pup.


	14. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Ennui Enigma: Mrs Hudson is on holiday; Watson fills in for her

“Mrs. Hudson!”

There was no answer. I continued mixing, wondering if he would come down or go back to the sitting room.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

_Calling again will not make her respond,_ I thought with a chuckle. He had gone straight upstairs on arriving home half an hour ago, apparently never realizing that I was in the kitchen instead of our landlady, and I could almost hear his huff of frustration. He would be able to hear the noise of my movements, but I would not answer to Mrs. Hudson’s name.

Footsteps finally thumped down the stairs, moving through the hall to come to a sudden halt in the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

I did not bother looking up, more concerned with getting supper in the oven than answering a rhetorical question.

“You ought to be able to figure that out yourself.”

He glanced between me and the many dishes, containers, and cookware spread over the counters.

“Does Mrs. Hudson know you are in her kitchen?”

I covered an amused grin. After she caught him stealing ingredients and a slice of pie, our redoubtable landlady had taken up a quest to keep him out of the kitchen, threatening him with a spatula every time he entered. She had not yet made use of the utensil, but it was only a matter of time if he kept trying.

“She asked me to be here,” I said simply, pretending to be engrossed in mixing the filling for the pie I was making. I paid more attention to him than I did the mixed filling, however. It was so rare that something escaped his attention. Could he truly not have noticed?

The surprise that crossed his face suggested he had completely missed this, and I suddenly found it harder to smother my grin.

“The Army did not teach me how to cook, if that is the problem.”

It took him another moment to find his words.

“Since when do you know how to cook?!”

A large grin broke free, and I turned my back to him, searching a drawer for a spoon.

“Childhood.”

_“What?”_

“Do I really need to repeat myself?”

I finally turned to find him glancing back and forth between the half-made meat pie and where I steadied myself against the counter, and he affected a scowl when he saw my large grin.

“Mrs. Hudson _asked_ you to borrow her kitchen?”

“Unless your pocketbook can handle eating out for the next few days?”

He glanced between me and the kitchen again.

“Where is Mrs. Hudson?”

“She said something about needing to visit her parents. Her train should be halfway to Edinburgh by now.” I limped across the room, bowl in hand to pour the filling into the crust I had waiting.

“She asked you to take over her kitchen because she was going on holiday?” Both his tone and his expression clearly conveyed just how unbelievable that was to him. I would have thought it strange, too, I supposed, if she had made it a habit to chase me out of the kitchen every time I entered, but I had borrowed her kitchen more than once. She knew I could cook, and more, she knew I would not destroy her kitchen _while_ I cooked, unlike a certain detective behind me.

I found it highly entertaining that _Holmes_ had never realized I could cook, however. He had eaten more than one of my dishes.

“Why does that bother you so much?”

“How did I _not_ know you could cook?!”

I barely smothered a laugh, and he followed me towards the oven.

“No, you fail to understand.” He despised finding out he had missed something, and it showed it in the way he nearly started talking with his hands as he stayed one step behind me. “Cooks have a specific set of burns scattered over their fingers and wrists. _Every_ cook has at least some of them. I should have known you could cook!”

My laugh finally escaped, and I closed the oven door to lean against the counter. “Your data is incomplete on two fronts.” He frowned, studying me as I grinned at him. “For one, you have never had a reason to look closely at my wrists.”

He lunged, grabbing my arm in a firm but gentle grip to push aside my sleeve. He found none of the burns he expected me to have, however, and my grin turned into more of a smirk.

“Secondly, someone who begins cooking early enough can escape the deeper burns by virtue of another person doing the more dangerous work during the learning stage.”

The scowl still on his face was probably becoming more due to my amusement than to the fact that he had missed something, but that did not help me prevent that amusement from showing.

“When did you learn?”

I chuckled, moving back across the room to begin cleaning.

“I started spending several days a week in the kitchen when I was barely old enough to walk.”

He stared at me, trying to read beneath the words to hear what I was saying. We both knew a toddler would not receive cooking lessons.

“My mother frequently helped in the kitchen when I was that age,” I finally told him, still unable to hide my grin. “Following her around eventually turned into cooking lessons that continued even after she grew busy doing other things.”

He glanced at the oven warily, and even my nonexistent deduction skills knew what he was silently asking.

_Are you a good cook?_

“You tell me,” I replied, chuckling again when his gaze shot back to try to pin me to the counter. “You seemed to like the chicken well enough last week.”

Surprise flickered across his face, barely visible before it disappeared.

“What else have you cooked?”

I waved him off, garnering far too much amusement from this to reveal that quite yet. “You have eaten my cooking more than once,” was my only answer, “including meat pies, and no, I will not use Mrs. Hudson’s allowing me in her kitchen to steal ingredients for you.”

He scowled at me again, irritated that I had specified that before he could ask.

“Will you teach me to cook?” he asked instead.

I merely smirked, knowing better than to fall for that. He had no more interest in learning how to cook than I had talent for disguises, but he thought Mrs. Hudson might stop chasing him out of the kitchen if he could claim that I was teaching him to cook.

“I do not have a kitchen in which to teach,” I said easily. “You will have to ask her.”

He scowled at me but made no reply, and a thought crossed his face a moment later. He moved brazenly toward the pantry, a grin trying to break free, and I exchanged the spoon for the largest spatula I could find.

“Stay out of there.”

He glanced back at me, apparently surprised when I brandished the spatula like a weapon.

“You too?” I had never known a grown man to pout, but Holmes certainly came close.

“You cannot seriously think she would let me use her kitchen without enjoining me to keep you out of it?” He hesitated, looking between me and the door. “I am quite capable of cooking for one, Holmes.”

He huffed, probably even less interested in eating out for every meal than I was. “Fine.”

Setting the spatula down as he moved to lean against the doorframe again, I surveyed my available ingredients. I had enough time to make a simple dessert if I started now, but what should I make?

Pudding, I decided. That would be easy enough to make, and it did not require the oven. A quick check confirmed I had all the ingredients, and I set to work.

“What are you making now?”

“Dessert,” I said shortly, measuring milk and rice into a kettle over the fire. “Can you not deduce from the ingredients?”

His huff was more feigned than true irritation, and he studied me for a moment longer before understanding lit his gaze.

“Is that how you make rice pudding?”

I barely smothered a chuckle, glad to have found _one_ useful topic in which I knew more than him. Even Harry had known the basics of cooking though he had not listened to Martha’s lessons as frequently as I had.

“Yes, this is rice pudding. Did you never follow your mother or housekeeper into the kitchen when you were younger?”

He shook his head but hesitated, apparently debating each word before he continued, “I was always busy doing other things,” he finally said simply.

“Well, if you want,” I answered, moving the conversation away from the uncomfortable topic, “and if you can refrain from stealing the sugar, you can help me.”

He glanced between the fire, my leg, and the few containers I had spread out for the pudding, then nodded, coming to stand beside me.

“What should I do?”

“Stir this.” Handing him a clean spoon, I demonstrated the slow stir the rice needed to avoid sticking to the pan as it cooked, and once he started, I moved back to the counter, slowly cleaning behind myself so that I would be able to eat without leaving a mess behind.

He did well, eventually helping stir the other ingredients into the cooked rice and milk while I monitored the pie, and we talked as we worked. Conversation drifted, flowing between everything from one of his recent cases to a day I had spent covering another doctor’s practice. He even gave the sugar bowl a wide berth.

“Get out of that.”

He flinched, rubbing his hand where I had struck him with the spatula. Apparently, that berth only applied to when he knew I was watching.

“Watson!”

I kept my spatula within easy reach.


	15. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Domina Temporis: Fog? In London?!
> 
> Companion to #8 - Senses

Mary was accustomed to fog in London. She had known of it before moving from India to attend boarding school, and she had grown to enjoy it at times in the years since. It was everywhere, swirling between the buildings, lying low in the ditches, infiltrating the house. Sometimes it was thick, sometimes so thin as to not be noticeable, but it was always present. It was familiar, home, in a strange sort of way, and most of the time, she had no reason to care that it was even there. It had always stayed where it belonged: a part of the air.

Until the day John returned from Switzerland.

He held her tightly on that ride from the station, desperately clinging to her like a dying man clutching what he held most dear. The grief on his face was nearly tangible, ageing him far beyond his years to a shell of the man that had left her a fortnight ago.

Was it truly only a fortnight? So much had happened in those two scant weeks—from a fire in Mrs. Hudson's flat to someone following her out of the market—and now this. Sherlock was gone, and John dealt with both grief at the loss and self-directed blame for not preventing it.

She knew how close they were. Brothers in bond if not blood, each would do anything for the other, and she could see the self-recrimination in his eyes, in his actions. John would have spent hours, days searching for a body to retrieve, feeling a failure when the magnificent falls denied him even that. It was only his love for her that had brought him home at all, and she was grateful for that small blessing.

"I love you." His words were strangled, nearly detached, and the all-consuming grief they carried nearly tore her apart.

"I love you, too."

He just held her tighter, refusing to say anything else despite her attempts to draw him out. The ride from the station passed slowly.

The hansom came to a halt, and John finally released his nearly painful grip to steady her to the cobblestones. Mr. Holmes had promised to check on them occasionally, but he did not stay now. The horse trotted away behind them as John seemed to notice their surroundings for the first time.

He froze, staring at the doorway through which he had walked so many times over the years, and her heart ached to see the pain on his face. Seeing his old rooms could not be easy, not when years of memories with Sherlock permeated the place, but Martha was waiting for them. Grief was always easier with company.

“Martha knows we’re coming, John. She said she would have a pot of tea for us in the kitchen.”

He made no answer, still staring at that familiar door, and she tugged on the hand she held, silently pleading with him to come inside. He finally moved, drifting through the door like a ghost, and the first tendrils of worry began to take hold.

Her own grief was achingly painful, but John looked broken.

“There you are, dearies.” Martha bustled out of the kitchen, tutting as she laid eyes on John. “Oh, Doctor,” she said quietly, wrapping him in a quick hug that he made no move to return. “The elder Mr. Holmes told me the news, and the flat already seems far too quiet.” She turned, waving them along behind her, and Mary kept her grip on John’s hand. “These rooms just won’t be the same without my two crazy lodgers upstairs, you know,” Martha continued as they reached the kitchen, speaking to John though her words included Mary as well. “You will continue your visits, won’t you?”

Martha nudged them towards the table when he did not answer immediately, following a moment later with three cups and a pot of tea, but John still said nothing.

“Doctor?”

There was no response. John did not even look up, but nor did he seem to be staring at the cup Martha placed in front of him.

“You know we will, Martha,” Mary finally answered, most of her attention on where John stared hollowly through the table. Something in his gaze seemed horribly familiar. “John, can you hear me?”

John did not glance up, did not even react to her words, and his fractured gaze heartbreakingly took her back to her childhood. His expression closely resembled her father’s when Mother died.

Shattered. Hollow. Empty.

She might have lost them both at that waterfall, no matter that one had boarded a train to London.

“Jack?”

He flinched at the more intimate name, and a part of him seemed to fall away as he slowly relaxed into his chair. She lurched forward to steady him, half-afraid he was going to collapse.

“John, look at me.”

Something in him recognized her voice, and his gaze flicked up in response. He stared over her shoulder rather than focusing on her, however. He was no more aware of her than her father had been the day after Mother’s funeral.

“John, say something. _Please.”_

His mouth never moved, and that hollow gaze remained miles away, still watching a Swiss waterfall instead of a London flat. Would those three precious words be the last thing she ever heard him say? Her father had eventually rallied, learned to live again, but she knew that not everyone did. Even those who avoided the more visible symptoms of brain fever sometimes never returned, trapped forever in their own minds as they faded from this world.

Her father had returned for her, for the young girl that refused to lose her papa as well. It had been her presence that became his reason for returning, and based on the strength of John’s embrace earlier, she might be the one person who could do that for him. She would not be able to leave him even for a day, an hour, lest he slip away to never return. She would be his strength now as he had been hers for the last few years, moving through her own heavy grief at Sherlock’s loss to bring her husband back. Perhaps together they could push away the encroaching fog that John could not defeat alone.

She would not be able to do this alone either, and plans started forming even as she tried to get John to say something, take a drink, move, _anything._ Martha would be willing to help take care of the house, and one of John’s colleagues would take the practice. That left only a source of income.

She could ask Sherlock’s brother, she decided. Mr. Holm—Mycroft had specifically told her to ask if she had need, and she could set aside her dislike of borrowing money to help John. She would send a message to Whitehall.

She needed to get John settled first, however, and Martha left to call them a cab as she gently pulled him to his feet. He followed her lead willingly enough, but he never spoke, never reacted, never looked at her even when they arrived at the house in Kensington. Hollow grief consumed his gaze, and the blank eyes that stared straight ahead nearly sent a shiver down her spine. He was falling farther and faster than her father ever had.

She settled him in the sitting room, constantly monitoring for the fever she feared was coming as she chided herself for neglecting John’s offer of medical lessons. They would have to call in another doctor if he began showing the more physical signs of brain fever, but they would cross that bridge if and when they came to it. For now, it was enough that she stayed with him, talked to him, fought for him. She could not let him retreat completely, and she fought for the small things—the grief filled gaze changing direction when she spoke, the limp hand finding her own, the faint reactions to her words. All were signs that he was still there, still trying to return to her. All of them gave her hope.

Hope of healing. Hope of health. Hope of her husband’s return. She would fight as long as he needed her to. She would prove he was not alone.

He slowly rallied. His hand found hers more frequently. He remembered how to eat without help. It would be weeks before he looked at her again and longer still before he spoke, but he slowly returned to her. Returned for her, as he admitted many months later.

But though he eventually returned to life, he was never quite the same. Half of him had died in Switzerland.

Half of her had died on his broken return, but maybe the news she carried would renew the spark she so dearly missed.


	16. Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Book girl fan: Family
> 
> Sequel to JWP #30 - Definitions

His eyes shot open, and he stilled. He rarely woke in the middle of the night. What had roused him?

Restless movement reached his ears, so faint it was almost indiscernible, and he silently rolled over to scan the courtyard. Had someone found their headquarters? He had heard stories of the last time that had happened, and he would need to raise the alarm quickly if they had an intruder.

Empty shadows met his searching gaze, however, and he sat up as the restless movement changed to quiet muttering. Was one of the littles having a nightmare?

He checked the other pallets, trying to find the source of the noise in the dozens of sleeping children scattered through the courtyard. The Irregular’s headquarters had become a safe haven for any street kid without a home, and toddlers up to nearly apprentice age slept in pallets and bedrolls, piles and cubbyholes all around the courtyard. Some slept alone, others near a friend or with a sibling, but all slept soundly. They were safe; there was no need to be on guard.

So, what did he hear?

“No. Go ‘way.”

The muttering grew louder, and he pulled himself to his feet, searching for the source of the noise.

“No. Don’t. That _hurts._ Go away.”

He slept alone, and there was no one to mind as he quietly moved away from the warm covers. He needed to help, but from where were the soft cries coming?

“Mum!”

Finally tracing the cries to a small hole in one wall, he moved closer. A cozy cubby held a small boy, one that had just yesterday declared that they were brothers, and he leaned down to peer inside.

“Johnny!” he whispered, reaching an arm into the hole too small for him. “Johnny, wake up!”

The younger boy merely curled tighter into a ball, squeezing as far into the hole as he could. His eyes remained closed, and the soft cries started growing louder.

“Leave her alone! No. Come back. Focus on me.”

There was a loose brick in one side of the hole, and he wiggled it free. The extra few inches let him fit head and shoulder into the dark cubby, and he gently took Johnny’s hand.

“Johnny!” he whispered again, trying not to wake the figures sleeping only a few feet away. “Johnny, it’s just a dream!”

He squeezed the hand he held, tugging gently and trying not to startle the smaller boy, and the cries slowly quieted. Finally, Johnny squeezed back.

“Johnny? Are you awake?”

“Tim?” The name was quiet, barely a whimper, but he could not conceal a sigh of relief.

“Yeah. It was just a dream, Johnny. You’re safe.”

Silence answered him for a moment. “I don’t wanna go back to sleep,” Johnny admitted quietly.

“You don’t have to.” He paused, readjusting. “I can’t fit in your cubby, Johnny. Do you want to lay next to me?”

A small, scared whimper answered him. “Out there?” Movement sounded faintly, as if Johnny had shaken his head against the back wall.

“You’re safe, little brother. He can’t get you here.”

Johnny nearly started at the title, his hand reflexively squeezing Tim’s before he calmed, but the movement sounded again.

“Why don’t you wanna sleep with me?”

“Wrong. Get you in trouble.”

“What’s wrong with sharing a pallet? We can combine your blankets with mine and make it cozy.”

Johnny made no answer, and a horrible idea bloomed.

“Johnny?” he asked quietly. “Did your uncle punish you for trying to sleep next to your mum?”

The flinch that shook the hand he held was the only answer he needed.

“Nobody’s gonna do that here, Johnny. You’re safe.”

“But only family can share a bed,” Johnny protested weakly.

“We’re brothers, ain’t we? This is what brothers are for. Come on. Bring your blankets.”

Releasing Johnny’s hand, Tim wiggled his way out of the small hole, and the smaller boy followed a moment later, dragging several blankets behind him.

Tim nearly chuckled. “You made yourself a fort in there, didn’t you?” he asked quietly.

Johnny nodded, smiling shyly when he realized Tim was amused, not angry. “Don’t like being cold,” he answered.

Tim gestured for Johnny to lower his voice, taking a few of the blankets as they stepped carefully around the other sleeping children.

“It’ll be warmer with two of us,” he whispered. “Here, we’ll put this thick one on the bottom to lay on, and the others can pile on top.”

Quickly adjusting the blankets, he nearly motioned Johnny to lie down when an idea hit, and he grabbed the corners of the bottom blankets.

“What are you doing?”

“Tying the corners together,” he whispered back, finishing the bottom two and moving to the one furthest from the door. “Makes it a bag instead of a bed, and it’ll be warmer.”

“That’s a funny looking knot,” Johnny whispered when Tim motioned for him to lie down, referring to the last one Tim had tied.

“That’s a slippery knot,” he said crawling in next to him and pulling the blankets up. “If you need to get up, tug the short side, and it’ll come apart.”

Johnny did not answer for a long moment. “You sure this is ok?”

Tim pried his eyes back open, just barely able to see the worry battling contentment on the smaller boy’s face. The pile of blankets was even warmer than Johnny’s cubbyhole had been. “’Course I am. Nobody’s gonna care a bit. Go to sleep, Johnny.”

Johnny could not stay guarded for long, not when the bag was so wonderfully warm, and his eyes soon closed. Tim followed a minute later, relieved when the smaller boy trusted him enough to huddle closer in sleep.

He had missed having a brother, and if this prevented any more nightmares, all the better.

He was proven right the next morning, both by the lack of nightmares and the lack of comments on the new arrangements. Everyone there knew what it was like to have trouble sleeping, and he noticed a few others pair together for sleep, some going so far as to ask how he had tied the blankets together. Apparently, helping one had helped several.

He was fine with that. That was what family was for, after all, and the Irregulars had been family since long before he had joined.


	17. Hazards of the Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From mrspencil: a crime taking place in a bookshop

“Holmes? Are you ready? You said you want to come.”

“Just a moment!”

I sighed, moving toward my chair as hurried noises came from Holmes’ bedroom. Why Holmes wanted to come with me on errands, I had no idea. I wanted to do some early Christmas shopping, and Holmes hated almost anything to do with the season. I would have thought he would prefer to stay home, but I had no reason not to wait on him.

“Alright, Watson,” Holmes’ voice said from the doorway before I could take a seat. “Where are we going?”

I chuckled as he followed me down the stairs. “I told you that already. I want to do some Christmas shopping, and I never know where I will end up.” I glanced back in time to catch him pull a face. “You do not have to come.”

He quickly wiped his expression, handing me my coat. “I have some shopping of my own to do,” he replied. “I just do not care for the excessive fuss. You know that.”

He had never cared for Christmas, and the three years he had spent abroad had done very little to change his mind. While last Christmas had showed a slightly increased willingness to tolerate it with me, he still would rather spend the entire season ignoring the holiday completely.

“Just be glad they do not have a way to play Christmas carols for the crowd,” I told him, a grin trying to break free as he closed the door behind us. He matched his pace to mine as we walked slowly down the street. “You would not be able to enter a shop for the entire month.”

He affected a scowl at my amusement. “I would go deaf before the month was done. One of the shops is planning to hire a few members of the orchestra to play Christmas carols.”

“Seriously?” I asked, glancing away from the patch of ice I carefully avoided. He nodded, and his scowl deepened at my grin. “They would probably like a violinist.”

“They will have to look somewhere else,” he shot back as I turned into a shop.

“Christmas carols are easy, Holmes. Most of them are the same few notes in a pattern.”

He followed me through the door, and if the muttering that faintly carried as he dodged around me to disappear behind the shelves was anything to go by, he did not see that as a positive. I allowed a faint laugh to break free. I had always enjoyed bickering with him, and he had never been able to hide that he enjoyed our bickering as much as I did, for all that he affected irritation when the topic related to Christmas, among other things.

I wandered through the shelves, trying to decide what I should get the few people for whom I always shopped. I would not buy Holmes’ gift until the last minute, but Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would not try to deduce their presents early. I just needed to get them.

I was at a loss this year for gift ideas, however. I mostly browsed.

Holmes appeared beside me as I lost interest in that store, and we moved on to the next one. He wandered away in most of the shops, but we conversed occasionally between them. He waved me out of one shop when he spotted the musician setting up in the corner, and I followed despite voicing the sarcastic remark that made him roll his eyes at me. A violist caroling on a street corner made him affect a scowl. The smile trying to turn the corners of his mouth when I enjoyed a heavily decorated shop vanished when he saw me glance over. I had no idea his reason for browsing, but I did enjoy his presence.

The afternoon slipped by as we went in and out of shops on several different streets. I finally found something for Lestrade, but I still needed to decide what to give Mrs. Hudson when Holmes began showing signs that he was done.

“Last one,” I promised, turning towards a book shop, and he affected a put-upon sigh. We both knew I could easily spend hours browsing a bookstore, and I laughed. “Then go home. You did not have to come.”

He lunged forward, getting the door for me as he shook his head. “Just try not to get lost, will you?”

I waited until he was behind me to roll my eyes. “I have yet to get lost in a bookstore, Holmes.”

“You get lost every time you open a book,” he shot back. “You might never find your way out of here.”

“If I get lost in books, then technically speaking, the book _store_ is perfectly safe.”

He huffed at me, ignoring the amused shopkeeper watching the exchange. “Not when you cannot enter a bookstore without opening at least one book.”

“That _is_ the point of a bookstore,” I said dryly, already browsing titles. “Why else would I come in, except to find a book to read?”

“You could always make your Christmas decorations out of them. Mrs. Hudson mentioned the other day needing to make more ornaments for her tree.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, turning my full attention to the books in front of me. I had never liked the idea of _cutting_ _up_ perfectly good books to use as one-time decorations. Even one missing page forever ruined the entire book, but I would not say as much to Holmes. He would never understand such a sentiment even if I tried to explain.

“Watson?”

I waved him off, my gaze still on the list of titles in front of me. Ornaments might make a good present for Mrs. Hudson, but I would not destroy a book to make them, nor would I give her a book to destroy. I had long considered such a thing to be near criminal. A book was meant to be read and shared, not destroyed for a decoration that would go in the trash in a few weeks.

He muttered something about getting lost faster than normal as he moved away, and I heard the shopkeeper laugh. I came here frequently enough that Adams knew us both quite well. This would not be the first time that he had watched us bicker from the moment we walked through the door.

A line of titles met my slow perusal, and I made my way down the shelves as I tried to decide what to get, if anything. I might enjoy that novel. Mrs. Hudson might appreciate that book on Scottish and Irish folklore. I would have to remember that book on rare poisons was here; Holmes might like that one.

Several minutes later, I had worked my way to the back of the shop when I heard the door open again. Vaguely familiar footsteps stomped over the threshold, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

“Lost track of my mate,” an unfortunately familiar voice said. “Did ‘e come in here?”

I heard the clerk readjust behind the counter. “I’m afraid not. You’re my first customer in hours.”

I could almost picture the man’s sneering grin, and a revolver cocked a moment later. “Good,” he growled, “and I’ll be your last. Lock the door.”

Adams hesitated only a moment before Crawford must have aimed his weapon, and light footsteps sounded before the door locked with a faint click. I put down the book I had been eyeing and began silently moving between shelves. Crawford was a local gang leader, one known for exactly what he was doing now: robbing store clerks at gunpoint. He had yet to hurt anyone _during_ his robberies, but one of Holmes’ current cases involved three men found dead after a known altercation with Crawford. The victims had been beaten to death, but Crawford had shot them anyway to be sure. The brutish man would not hesitate to add another kill to his name, and now the three of us were locked in a bookstore with him.

Two of us, I corrected myself. Holmes would have gone to the back room, and I could not alert him without revealing myself. I would have to help Adams alone.

I stepped carefully, using shelves and book displays to stay out of sight as I listened to Crawford order Adams to open the safe beneath the counter. With that gun trained on him, Adams could only comply, but he pretended to struggle with the key. Crawford tried to hurry him, and I heard Adams fearfully cry something about the lock being rusted and that it would take a moment. I knew there was no rust in that lock for all that the outside was covered, and I commended him for his quick thinking. The delay gave me enough time to make my way behind Crawford.

Adams glanced back, apparently glancing worriedly at the gun though I knew he noticed me. He turned back to fighting with the box, giving me the time I needed to get into position. I would only have one chance.

I lunged as soon as I was close enough, and Crawford never saw me. I hit him with a rugby tackle, slamming him to the ground as the gun went off within inches of my face, and we fought over the weapon. Adams joined me a moment later, but Crawford was larger than either of us. It took another long minute before we finally wrenched the gun from Crawford’s failing grip, and I held Crawford down as Adams produced a length of rope from under the counter.

“Are you alright?” I asked quietly, relying on feel more than sound to regulate my volume. My ears still rang from the gunshot.

He nodded, not looking up as he secured Crawford’s bonds to a heavy shelf, and I turned to look for Holmes. I would have expected him to rush out at the noise, but he was nowhere in sight.

He must still be in the back room, I decided as I moved toward the other door, amusement coursing through me. Expecting me to be here for a while, he had gotten so caught up in whatever research topic he had found that he had failed to note the gunshot. He would not be able to comment about my tendency to lose myself in a book after this. _I_ had never missed a gunshot.

“Holmes?” I said as I reached the back room, again setting my volume by feel instead of sound. The gun had been only a few inches away when it went off, and the small room had amplified the weapon’s report. It could be a while before my hearing returned to normal. “I thought you said I was the one that lost myself in books, Holmes.”

There was no answer, and a quick search of the shelves proved the room empty. Holmes must have left before Crawford entered. That was just as well; maybe my hearing would return by the time he met me back at the flat. I made my way back to the front of the shop, where several Yarders fought to untie Crawford’s bonds while another took a statement from Adams. The Yarder looked over at me as I came closer.

“Dr. Watson,” I heard just barely well enough to understand if I watched his mouth. “Were you here for this as well?”

I nodded, quietly explaining everything from Crawford walking through the door to tying him to the bookshelf. He recorded my story in his notebook.

“Is Mr. Holmes here?” was his only question. I shook my head, and he stepped away as I thought I heard Adams say something.

“What was that?” I looked over, staring at his lips as he repeated himself.

“Are you injured?”

“I’m fine,” I answered. “Holmes must have left before Crawford arrived. Tell him I went home if he looks for me here?”

Adams nodded, and with one last glance at where the Yarders struggled to untie Crawford’s ropes, I ducked out the door.

The ringing in my right ear was already beginning to subside, but walking down the sidewalk, the bustling crowds took on an almost watery tone, as if I listened from the bottom of a lake. The eerie quality was surreal, and I was grateful the bookshop was only a couple of blocks from the flat. Even my sigh of relief when I closed the door behind me sounded strange, and I hurried up to the sitting room, hoping to find it empty. It would not be long before he returned to the shop in search of me, and I would much prefer my hearing to return a bit more before I had to deal with Holmes’ many questions.

Holmes’ chair was empty when I entered the room, but I had barely relaxed into my own chair with a book in hand when the floor shook with the slamming of the front door. Holmes’ voice carried up the stairs, the words indiscernible though the speed with which he climbed the stairs suggested word of the altercation had reached him.

The sitting room door nearly slammed open, and relief appeared in Holmes’ gaze as he saw me staring at him.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Of course.” I affected confusion, trying to hide that I stared at his mouth to confirm the words I could only barely hear. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He scowled, quickly crossing the room to sit in his chair though his gaze never left off studying me.

“You cannot convince me you were not still in the shop,” he said. “The entire street was talking about the man that dodged a bullet to singlehandedly bring Crawford down.”

I shrugged. “What of it?” I answered, ignoring the bit about dodging a bullet. That was probably a bit _too_ accurate. “You would have done the same, and I hardly did it alone. Adams helped confiscate the gun after I sent Crawford to the ground, and he tied the knots, as well.”

He huffed, still staring at me. “You are not injured?”

I shook my head, leaning back in my chair and getting comfortable. “I’m fine.” Or I would be soon enough.

He made no answer, and I turned my attention to my book. It was a sea novel I had been intending to read for a while, and the plot was intriguing. The pseudo-silence around me allowed the story to quickly draw me in, but I had barely turned the third page before a hand landed on my shoulder.

I jumped, glancing up to find Holmes standing just out of my line of sight. I did not try to check my scowl despite the worry in his gaze.

“Why did you do that?”

“Can you hear me?”

“I am horrible at lip-reading, Holmes. Do you really need to ask that?”

He knelt in front of me, making it easier to confirm his words even as he studied me. “Then why are you talking so quietly?”

I raised my volume slightly. “Because it is better than screaming. I’m fine, Holmes.”

He made no immediate answer, and I soon tired of his staring.

“What?”

His gaze lighted on my shoulder, and the worry in his gaze increased. “By how much did the bullet miss you?”

I sighed, finally registering the smell clinging to me as I looked over to find a powder burn on my jacket.

“I have no idea. I just know it did. It lodged in the ceiling, I believe.”

“I saw it when I returned to the shop,” he said with a nod. He paused, still staring at me. “Adams said to thank you. You saved his life.”

I waved off the thanks. “I should have commended him for the quick thinking. He distracted Crawford long enough for me to get within range. Where did you go?”

His eye twitched as it sometimes did when he smothered a flinch, but I did not have a chance to ask what about my statement had bothered him.

“To a nearby shop,” he answered. “I would have had several more minutes before you were ready to go, and I was two blocks away when the crowd parted to let four Yarders through. The throng that prevented me from determining the shop provided the details a moment later, and I returned only a few minutes after you left.”

I was glad I had thought to tell Adams I was going home. Though the delay might have let some of my hearing return before Holmes found me, he would have been frantic by the time he arrived home if he had searched the other shops first. Worry _still_ shone in his gaze.

“How bad is the hearing loss?”

“Not that bad,” I answered quickly.

“Watson.”

I scowled at him. The persistence that made him a good detective could be extremely annoying at times. He was not going to leave me alone until I answered his question.

“My left ear is still ringing,” I finally replied, “but it is getting better. The right is watery, also getting better. I do not think I ruptured either eardrum.”

He reached into the bag I only just noticed on the floor beside me and pulled out my otoscope, using a candle to provide a bit more light as he looked into each ear.

“I see no evidence of blood,” he finally said, making sure to speak straight at me.

I nodded. I would have expected it to hurt if I had damaged the eardrum, but there was nothing aside from the auditory impairment.

“It will heal eventually,” I told him.

He frowned at me but stood up. “You will tell me if something changes, right?”

I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes at him. “I’m fine. I will just need to take it easy for a while. The quieter it is, the faster my hearing will return to normal.”

He huffed at the reference to the scratching he had done on the violin the last few nights as he thought through his cases, but he busied himself at the chemistry table without further comment. I returned to my book.

Already, I was beginning to hear more and more of Holmes’ movements. My hearing would likely return to normal in a couple of days.


	18. Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Book girl fan: Something featuring the 221 Baker Street stairs.

The stairs at 211 Baker Street had seen a lot over the years. The old house had seen children grow up and move out, families come and go, black appear draped over various rooms, but the most interesting time started when several visitors wandered through over the course of a couple of days.

* * *

“You would have the two bedrooms and the upstairs sitting room,” she told them as she slowly led them up the stairs in deference to the doctor’s current pace. “There is a washroom across from the sitting room, with an entrance from the bedroom, and rent includes furniture, meals, and general cleaning.”

They stopped on the landing, each taking turns peering into the various rooms.

“Is the upstairs bedroom the same as this one?” the doctor asked, looking into the bedroom again.

She nodded. “They are about the same size, but the upstairs room has the fireplace.”

Mr. Holmes stepped further into the sitting room, scanning the room’s layout. “What do you think about using that table for chemistry experiments?” he asked, gesturing to an empty table near a window.

Silence answered him for a moment. “If you break something,” she finally said, “you replace it.”

He nodded sharply, accepting that as he further explored the room.

“Do you object to music played indoors?” was his next question.

She felt a wistful smile come over her face, barely noticing the way the doctor quickly turned away. “Well played music is a treat,” she answered.

“Will you mind if some books join yours on the shelf?” the doctor broke in, steadying himself as he leaned over to look at the few books she had forgotten to move.

“Oh, those will be gone by the time you move in. You can divide the bookshelf between you.”

“I work out of my rooms,” Mr. Holmes said after the doctor nodded and resumed looking around, “and have all kinds of characters in and out, depending on my current work. Would that cause a problem?”

“Would you be wanting me to announce them?” she asked.

He nodded. “Some of them.”

She thought about that for a moment. “I do not get out of bed to answer the door,” she prefaced, “but during daylight hours, I see no problem with that, provided they are not dangerous.”

“No fear of that.” He glanced over as the doctor rejoined them near the door. “What do you think?”

“I think this will do nicely,” he answered quietly.

“Excellent.” Mr. Holmes turned toward her with an expectant look. “When can we move in?”

* * *

Those first weeks were quiet. The doctor seemed to be injured, or perhaps ill, and he did not get around much. He spent the first few days in bed, but the same malady did not appear to apply to the other tenant. Mr. Holmes, as the lady had called him, never slowed down.

* * *

“Watson!”

The front door slammed, and heavy steps pounded up the stairs. I looked up from my book, curious as to what had him so excited. Only a few days into the new year, his work was as busy as ever, but he rarely got this excited about whatever he did for a living.

He nearly skidded into the room. “You are here. Good. What do you think of this?”

Envy tried to course through me at the way he crossed the room in four quick strides, but I pushed it aside as he held out his hand.

“Concert tickets?” I asked, then I looked closer. “Holmes! These sold out months ago!”

“Someone at the concert hall gave them as a late Christmas gift,” he told me, obviously pleased at my reaction. A quick movement revealed a second ticket. “What do you say to a concert tonight?”

I could not kill a wide grin. I had always loved music, and I dearly missed being able to play. “Of course!”

“We need to leave soon, then,” he called, already disappearing into his room. “It starts in three hours.”

I pulled myself to my feet, ignoring the pain that rippled through my half-healed injuries. The concert would be worth the discomfort of going, and it sounded much more interesting than hours next to the fire with a book I had read a hundred times.

* * *

That first evening out seemed to set a trend. Mr. Holmes came and went at all hours, and the doctor mostly stayed by the fire, only following occasionally. Injuries and illness eventually heal, however, and he soon began following Mr. Holmes more frequently.

* * *

“Watson! We have a client!”

Holmes’ voice carried up the stairs, and I set aside the journal I had been slowly trying to fill. Thumping my stick on the floor to confirm I had heard him, I slowly made my way to the sitting room, where he watched an older man pace in front of the settee. The man looked up as I entered the room, intense disquiet showing in a heavily lined face.

“Mr. Martin,” Holmes introduced, “Dr. Watson, my colleague.”

Mr. Martin nodded a greeting, finally taking a seat on the settee though his bouncing foot announced his nervousness.

“Something is wrong.” The words had a distracted air, as if he were saying them more out of worry and nerves than a true attempt to convince us. “She would not have gone this long without contacting me.”

“Start from the beginning, Mr. Martin,” Holmes admonished, leaning back into what I was beginning to realize was his listening pose.

The man frowned, glancing at me as it appeared Holmes was about to fall asleep, but I merely gestured for him to begin. Clients would just have to grow accustomed to Holmes’ ways if they wanted the detective’s services.

“Two days ago,” he started, “I received a telegram confirming Sierra’s travel plans…” He went on to outline the events surrounding his daughter’s disappearance, relaxing into the story slightly as I began taking notes. Sierra had confirmed travel plans only to never make her train, and when Mr. Martin arrived the next day, he could find no sign of her. If the few questions Holmes posed were any indication, this was going to be an interesting case.

I could not claim to object. After only a few months of helping Holmes with his cases, I was finding that I enjoyed them as well, perhaps almost as much as he did. I would help on as many as he allowed.

* * *

Healed did not mean perfectly, however, and while the number gradually decreased over time, the doctor still had days where he did not leave their rooms. His irritated grumbling carried further on some days than others, but it never carried as far as the other man’s did on a day when the doctor should not have left the rooms but did anyway.

* * *

“That cane of yours is rather more useful than I expected,” Holmes said as we walked through the door.

I could not smother a grin at his words, but he ignored it as he continued inspecting the bruising on his cheek with a gentle hand.

“If you would call the Yard when you expect danger,” I admonished, “you might not have had to rely on my throwing skills.”

He waved me off, turning toward the stairs. “The Yard would have been no help, and Lestrade certainly does not have your aim.”

I rolled my eyes. Holmes’ suspect had brought a friend, and they had separated us during the ensuing fistfight. My opponent had been relatively weak, but I had glanced over to find Holmes nearly pinned against a wall. My cane was the only thing available, and the weighted tip had done its job and then some. Both suspects were in the Yard’s custody only a few minutes later, and Holmes sported a bruise from where the handle had hit his cheek. I was sorry that I had injured him while helping, but I could not feel too badly when he still refused to call the Yard for help. An officer would not have accidently hit him in the face with a cane.

Ignoring my wordless reply, Holmes bounded up to the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson had mentioned leaving a cold supper for us since we had no idea when we would return, and the case’s denouement meant he had an appetite for the first time in days. I was grateful I would not have to argue with him about his need for food.

I was not even sure I could make it up the stairs.

There was a storm rolling in, and that had combined with the fight to leave my shoulder and leg nearly screaming. Throwing my cane had been a fine way of distracting Holmes’ opponent long enough for Holmes to take him down, but my leg had not appreciated the minutes supporting my full weight. I was rather glad Holmes had gone up first. I would not ask for help, and the food might distract him long enough for me to hide how close my leg was to buckling.

“Watson?”

Or maybe not.

“Go ahead and start,” I answered, using the banister to pull myself up another stair. “I will be there in a minute.”

Footsteps sounded in the room above, and he peered over the railing as I managed another stair.

“I’m fine, Holmes,” I said when I glanced up to find him staring at me, concern in his gaze. “You know I cannot take the stairs as quickly as you can.”

A spasm shot down my leg as he disappeared, and I leaned on my cane to let it pass. He hurried down the stairs instead of returning to the sitting room, however, ignoring my protests as he took my arm in his.

“You are not fine,” he eventually admonished, supporting most of my weight when my leg finally buckled near the top. “You are going to end up at the base of the stairs.”

I waved him off despite still using his aid to stay upright as he helped me toward my chair. “It will pass soon enough.”

“Not if you will not slow down,” he replied. “You would not tell a patient to push themselves so hard. Why do you push yourself?”

I had no answer for him, but he did not wait for one, stepping to the table to dish two plates of food.

“Thank you,” I said quietly as he handed me a plate.

He nodded, about to continue remonstrating me for overdoing it. He changed his mind at the last moment, however, instead opening a discussion of how he had found the two men currently in a cell down at the Yard.

* * *

The doctor did eventually reach a baseline, relegating the worst days to when weather combined with several other things, and even the shopkeepers rarely saw one without the other.

Until someone else appeared on the stairs.

* * *

“I had a wonderful evening, John,” she said again as the door closed behind us.

“Watson, do you—ugh!” The approaching footsteps halted, partially turning away. “Do you really have to do that _there?”_

Breaking our kiss, I looked up with a smirk at where Holmes stood at the top of the stairs.

“I could do it again if it bothers you that much.”

He growled at me, stomping back into the sitting room as Mary laughed.

* * *

The detective’s mood fluctuated between genuinely glad for his friend and trapped in the pits of a Black Mood, and the case on the mantel moved more and more frequently. He made it to the wedding, however, and the doctor repeated many times that he would visit.

* * *

“You know you are welcome anytime, right?”

Holmes nodded, trying to hide a low mood under false congratulations as he followed me toward the door. I had not taken everything with me, but there had been one more box to retrieve after our honeymoon. I had purposely left it in the sitting room as proof that my marriage would not end contact.

“I am serious, Holmes. I want to take part in your cases, and Mary has told you repeatedly that she wants to help, too. You are not allowed to let a change of address keep you from asking me along.”

He pretended to smile and agree, but I could see he still thought I had to choose. He would not ask me to choose him over Mary, and he had resigned himself to this breach. I would need to stop by frequently, both to keep an eye on him and to prove I was telling the truth.

A shadow crossed the sitting room as I climbed into the cab. I did not like where it stopped, and my worry only grew when I stopped for a visit a few days later to find a blank gaze and needle marks on his arm.

* * *

The detective did pull out of it, however, and life resumed. He returned to his cases, and the others helped occasionally. For a year or so, it was not uncommon for the three of them to have supper in the flat, and while this tapered slightly as a case kept the detective out of the house at all hours, the friendship remained undamaged.

Until an unfamiliar hand pounded on the door.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson hurried out of the kitchen, avoiding the stuff stacked at the base of the stairs to answer the knocking. Who would be pounding on the door this time of night? With Mr. Holmes and the doctor on the continent for the last two weeks, she had expected a quiet evening.

The knocking sounded again as she reached the door, and she fought with the lock for only a moment before the door swung open, revealing a tall, familiar man standing on the step.

“Mr. Holmes!” She opened the door further. “Come in! The other Mr. Holmes is away, if you are looking for him.”

He slowly shook his head, something she could not define crossing that impenetrable gaze. “No, my dear lady,” he rumbled. “I am here to speak with you.” He hesitated. “Perhaps we should sit down?”

She led him to the kitchen, dread beginning to build in her chest. She did not like where this was going.

“What is it?” she asked as they settled at the table, forgetting to offer a drink in her worry. “They are alright, aren’t they? Mr. Holmes said they would return sometime next week.”

He hesitated again, and she felt grief’s cold grip even before he found the words. “They were attacked, Mrs. Hudson. The doctor’s train arrives tomorrow, but…”

The pleasant stillness in the rooms above suddenly flipped to an eerie silence.

* * *

The next years were quieter ones. Fewer footsteps climbed to the unused sitting room. The handful of visits always occurred in the kitchen or another room on the ground floor, and even those tapered off eventually, stopping completely in the middle of the third winter. 221 Baker Street became just another quiet house, one whose ghosts climbed the stairs while the owner stayed in her rooms.

* * *

Rattling carried into the back room, and she put down her sewing with a sigh. Why those boys could not just _knock_ was beyond her, but it had apparently become a game among the former Irregulars to see who could pick the lock on her door before she opened it for them. Only the older ones did it, however, the ones she knew from those wonderful years, and she could not bring herself to mind overmuch. She had always cared for that ragtag group of children, and goodness knows the doctor was in no place to welcome a visit.

“I’m coming,” she muttered as the rattling continued while she hurried up the hallway, but the door opened before she could reach it. “Who is it this time?” she called. “Wiggins? Jacob?”

There was no answer, and she reached the entry to find a stooped old bookseller closing the door.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She grabbed one of the doctor’s old canes from the corner. “Get out of my house!”

She swung the cane, but the stranger did nothing to block the impact.

“I probably deserve that,” a very familiar voice admitted.

She froze, watching in shock as the stooped bookseller became her long-dead tenant.

* * *

Life resumed, and while some things had changed dramatically—the doctor had not been so quiet before, and this obviously worried the detective—other things remained exactly the same.

Well, maybe not _exactly_.

* * *

“Holmes! What have I told you about borrowing my books?”

I stared at the pages in front of me. I had returned from a day trip to find the book that had been a half-read medical text this morning now showed significant damage. Three pages were ripped, one page was missing, all were wet, and my bookmark was nowhere to be found. I struggled to suppress my anger.

“Holmes?” I said again when there was no answer.

I still heard nothing from the other room, and I scooped up the ruined book. While thankfully this book was not irreplaceable, the bookmark _had_ been. Holmes knew better than to damage my library.

“Holmes?” I growled, growing angrier when I still heard no reply from his room.

Silence answered me, and his room was deserted. He must have left before I arrived home, possibly hoping my irritation would cool by the time he returned.

There was no chance of that, not when he had lost an heirloom and destroyed a brand-new textbook. I had been reading that in preparation for a medical conference next month, and the bookmark had been one my parents gave me when I graduated medical school. I could buy a new copy of the book eventually, but my parents were long dead. Such a treasured memento was irreplaceable.

The door below opened, then shut, and footsteps climbed the stairs as I moved back out to the landing.

“Holmes?” I said again, my anger clear in my tone, and he paused on the top step before continuing around the corner. “What have I told you about borrowing my books, Holmes?”

“If I break it, I replace it?” he hazarded, question in his gaze as he held a new copy out to me.

I stared at him. That was most definitely _not_ what I had said about borrowing my books, but I could see the apology alongside the question. I relaxed minutely and took the book, nodding my acceptance. I was still furious with him for losing one of the last things I had from my parents, but voicing that anger would change nothing.

He followed me into the sitting room, and I felt his gaze on me as I set the book on my desk and began moving around the room.

“What is it?” I finally asked, still fighting down my temper. He could not have known that such a small item meant so much to me. I had several bookmarks scattered around the flat, but only the one had been a gift from my parents.

“You are still angry,” he noted with a frown, “but not about the book. Why?”

I turned away from him, hiding my expression as I unpacked the small bag I had taken this morning. “The bookmark I was using in that book was irreplaceable, Holmes. It and the watch were the only things I had left of my parents, and the watch is also my brother’s.” I heard him stand, and I picked up my bag and moved toward the door before he could come closer, intending to go up to my room until I had quelled my anger. “I need to finish unpacking.”

“Watson.”

I stopped in the doorway, glancing back to see him dig through the papers on my desk before walking towards me.

“You keep better track of that strip of leather than you do some of your books,” he said, a grin twitching his mouth though I noticed the hesitance in his gaze. He moved closer, holding out the bookmark. “I left it here when Charlie came for help.”

My anger fell away all at once, replaced by relief that he had not lost something else I could not replace.

* * *

The stairs saw many more things over the years, from playful banter to terrified calls for help, but all things must come to an end. As there had been many firsts, there must also be a last.

* * *

“Do you have everything?”

He sighed, looking around the rooms that had not been so empty in decades. “I believe so. Are you sure you will not join me?”

I barely hesitated, still not enjoying the idea of him moving from London while I stayed but willing to accept his promise of frequent visits. “I am quite sure I will join you eventually,” I answered, “but not yet. Besides, I already have several appointments scheduled.”

He affected a scowl, glad that my practice had so easily transitioned from informal to formal but not as glad that I had turned down his offer to have the second bedroom. He had not yet moved into his cottage, and already he had started trying to get me to sell my practice and move to Sussex.

“When will you have a telephone?” I asked before he could try again. I found his indirect attempts amusing, but we had other things to do today besides bicker. His train left in a couple of hours.

“It should already be installed,” he answered. “Mycroft leaned on the right people to get someone out there before I moved in.”

Irritation colored his words. He had never liked the idea of having such a device in his home, much preferring to speak face to face, and he feared Mycroft would use the telephone to bother him with government problems.

“I doubt he will call often,” I told him with a smirk. “That would be somewhat outside his routine.”

“I am quite capable of leaving my routine.”

Holmes barked a laugh as I spun around to find Mycroft standing in the doorway behind me, amusement in that watery gaze, but I recovered quickly.

“Of course,” I agreed immediately as my smirk changed into a large grin, “but how often? Jupiter and Saturn only align every eight hundred years or so.”

That might be the first time I had ever heard _Mycroft_ laugh, and Holmes’ words were only somewhat unsteady when he finally managed to speak.

“He might have you there, brother.”

“Indeed,” was Mycroft’s only reply. “Are you ready to go, Sherlock?”

Holmes nodded, still smothering the chuckle trying to escape. “My train does not leave until ten. Did you need something?”

Mycroft shook his head, pointing out the window to where a motorcar waited in front of the flat.

“You both know how to drive after that case last year. I thought you might like to go with him, Doctor.”

I glanced at the parked motorcar, then back at Mycroft as my grin somehow widened. I had not been planning to go due to the train schedule. We would only have had a few hours before I would have had to turn around and come back or miss my appointments, but the motorcar meant I did not have to worry about that.

“Thank you, brother,” Holmes said, and I finally found the words to thank him as well.

He waved us off. “They need it back tomorrow,” he said, handing me the key. “You remember where to go?”

I nodded, easily recalling the small building the government used as a transit office.

“Ask for Margaret,” he continued, turning toward the door as I nodded again. His version of a farewell carried over his shoulder.

“Try not to get stung, Doctor.”

I froze when the words registered, spinning toward where Holmes scowled at the closing door.

_“Stung?”_ I repeated. “You already have the hives?”

“Stackhurst must have gotten them early,” he told me.

I just shook my head. Even retired, life with Holmes would never be boring.

* * *

Somehow, though, that _last_ did not seem quite final.


	19. Musical Remedies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From zanganito: Fire

_“FIRE !”_

I jerked awake, landing with a thump and frantically checking my surroundings.

I was at home, in Baker Street. The watch on my nightstand read a few minutes after midnight. It was a dream.

I fought to catch my breath as relief and irritation coursed through me in equal measures. Relief that I was safe, not at war; irritation that I had had that dream yet again. I hated all of them, but probably that one most of all. It had haunted my sleep more times than I could count, and I never failed to jolt awake when it was done.

At least I had not woken into a regression this time. That had happened several times as well.

I pulled myself off the floor to sit on my bed, still trying to slow my breathing and grateful that Holmes appeared to be out of the flat. He did not need to know just how frequently I had nightmares. It was bad enough he had seen some of them in the first weeks after his return.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs on the heels of that thought, however, and I quickly smothered a sigh as Holmes’ voice sounded from my doorway.

“Watson?”

I waved him off, keeping my back to the door even as my breathing slowed and I found my words.

“Just a dream.”

He made no answer for a long moment, probably studying me from his place in the doorway.

“Join me downstairs?” he finally asked.

Amusement flickered to life at his words, but I made no reply, merely pulling myself to my feet and quickly smoothing the covers.

A fire burned brightly in the hearth, the dancing flames illuminating papers spread over both floor and furniture. My chair was clear, however, and I took a seat as Holmes moved the papers from his own chair.

“What were you doing?” I asked, staring at the notes strewn about the room. They had not been there when I went to bed a few hours ago.

“I thought I saw a pattern,” he answered as I realized the notes detailed various cases over the last couple of months, “but there is nothing.”

I made no answer, deciding I probably did not want to know what pattern he had thought there was, and silence fell between us. I would not be able to return to sleep tonight, but that did not matter. I was used to it by now, and maybe he would return to his notes soon. I could use the distraction to ignore the visions still forcing their way through my mind.

“Watson?” he said several minutes later.

I blinked, finding myself staring into the fire as my thoughts wandered.

“Hmm?”

Silence answered me, and I glanced up to find him struggling for words.

“What was the dream?” he eventually asked.

_Deafening fusillade. Screaming. Fighting. Blood. Death._

I smothered a flinch, turning back toward the fire. “Don’t worry about it.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, studying me.

“I meant what I said.”

‘What he had said?’ I glanced up at him, my confusion showing. What had he said?

“Right after you moved back,” he elaborated, “after the experiment. I meant what I said, but I do not always know how.”

I looked back at the fire. Only a few days after finally believing him when he said he wanted me to move back into my old room, he had been working on an experiment when his beaker broke. The smell of blood from his experiment had combined with the sound of breaking glass and the smell of yeast from the bread Mrs. Hudson had left to rise downstairs to send me into a regression. He had tried to snap me out of it, and I had given him a black eye when I mistook him for an enemy. I had tried move back to my Kensington house, but he had refused, maintaining that he wanted to help though I could not understand why.

The main problem with his offer, however, was not my lack of understanding so much as that I did not know how he _could_ help. My nightmares were my own, and I had no wish to burden him with something I could handle myself, something I had been handling by myself for several months already.

“Watson?” he said again when I remained silent.

“I don’t know either,” I admitted quietly, my gaze still on the mesmerizing flames. I thought about saying more, but the words refused to come.

“Would it help to build a fire in your room each night?”

I shook my head quickly. I had tried that once, when the temperature outside had plummeted to far colder than London usually saw. The flickering light had caused one of the most disorienting regressions yet. It was too similar to the way gunfire shone in the darkness of a moonless night.

“What about music?”

I caught my fingers twitch in an A major, and I clenched my fist as I shrugged. I had not tried music. I could not, though there had been a few times when Holmes’ playing had sent me to sleep. I had never told him why I alternated between enjoying his violin and avoiding it.

I heard him stand, and footsteps walked to where his violin rested in the corner. I did not look up as he quickly checked the tune, and a slow, unfamiliar song drifted across the room a moment later.

The song had a vaguely Asian lilt, its almost haunting tune seeming to lightly dance up and down the scales, and I wondered where he had learned it. The sound was something like what I had heard in India, but the tune was somehow otherworldly, an eerie, nostalgic air that captured my attention and gently pushed the visions still plaguing me aside. I found myself relaxing into my chair, though I kept my gaze on the fire instead of watching him play. It was a beautiful song, and I was content to listen to the drifting tune as I stared into the flames.

I opened my eyes several hours later, stretching and glancing around before I heard Holmes’ steady breathing carrying through the open door to his bedroom. The clock on the mantel showed just before dawn, and I had slept deeply, dreaming of flames dancing to unfamiliar notes instead of the chaotic horror of war.

I would not ask him to play more often just so I could escape my own mind, but perhaps he would tell me about the music he had learned while he was gone. I had not been able to learn more than a few songs during my time in India, and, without an instrument on which to practice, I doubted I could play more than a few notes of any of them anymore. Even if I could not play the songs he knew, however, it might be nice to learn about them. The few bars I still remembered of that haunting song made me long for my viola all over again.

I pulled myself upright and resettled on the settee. I knew better than to return to sleep, but that was alright. I could rest without sleeping while I waited for Holmes to wake. Several hours of sleep had left me more relaxed than I had felt in days, and I stared into the dying fire, letting my thoughts drift from the music to my dreams and back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone curious, this story references several works in and out of both my Moving On and Rekindling Hope series, most specifically The Effects of War and some of Watson’s history established in Alone and The Gift of Music.  
> Internet cookies if you can recognize the song Holmes played. Hint: it's not in this fandom


	20. Bolt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From mrspencil: Lestrade has a secret

I stared up at Holmes, my book unnoticed in my hand as he paced back and forth. He had been pacing in front of the fireplace for most of the day, and I did not like how frequently his gaze had strayed to the mantel. He had gotten rid of that horrible case long ago, but at times like this, I still feared he would replace his supply.

“How about a case?” I finally suggested. He had turned down all my other ideas.

He scowled without looking up. “What case?” he nearly snarled. “The bell has not rung in days, and Lestrade has nothing for me right now. Even you cannot believe we can _wish_ something into existence!” He gestured angrily as his gaze strayed toward the mantel again.

I ignored the insult, knowing it came from boredom rather that true ill-spirit.

“The Case of the Missing Flatmate,” I answered simply.

He froze mid-step, then spun to face me. “You mean—” He broke off the question, staring at me in surprise.

“I could go hide somewhere in the city,” I answered, wondering at the disquiet—fear?—showing in his gaze, “in a place we both know. You have until dark to find me, and Lestrade will have a hint at supper time if you need it.”

He seemed to relax, the disquiet fading behind suppressed interest, and I wondered what he had thought I meant.

“That could be interesting,” he admitted, likely remembering the last time we had done this, “but it hardly seems so for you.”

I shrugged. “It would give you something to do for a few hours, and it makes no difference to me whether I read my book here or somewhere else. I can think of several comfortable hiding places.”

He thought about it for only a moment before nodding, and I pulled myself to my feet. “It is half past two, now,” I said, making sure my pocket watch matched the clock on the mantel. “You can follow me in thirty minutes, and I will _not_ be leaving a trail for you this time.”

A grin twitched his mouth. The last time we had done this, I had laid a trail with my stick and my jacket, then recruited two Irregulars to continue the trail while I doubled back to the flat, settling on the roof. I knew better than to try that again. He might check the roof anyway if he did not find me by supper.

He affected a scowl when I grabbed some bread and meat leftover from lunch, catching the insinuation that I did not believe he would find me quickly, but he made no comment as I hurried down the stairs to tell Mrs. Hudson what we were doing.

I pushed my way through the crowd a few minutes later, keeping to the middle of the path to leave the fewest traces. I had already shown that I was quite capable of losing him in London—whether intentionally or not—but I would need every second of that thirty-minute head start. He could walk much faster than I could, and he could easily catch up if I was not properly hidden by the time he left the flat.

My destination was not far, however, not even halfway to Hyde Park. Stopping only to send a quick telegram to Lestrade, I ducked into an alley, using the shadows as cover as I scanned the street behind me.

I saw no indication that anyone had noticed my passing, and I faded further into the alley, searching for the small, nondescript door I knew was here.

A thin wall of vines concealed the door, and I pushed them aside, unlocking the handle with a key from a small hole in the brick. Only a moment later, the key was back in its cubby, and I had disappeared into a shadow.

* * *

Lestrade detoured around Baker Street, refusing to risk running into Mr. Holmes. The detective would likely read his thoughts on his face, and that might ruin the game.

"Holmes is bored," the telegram had read. "If he does not find me by supper, tell him to bolt."

Lestrade had laughed on reading the message, remembering the story of the first time they had done something like this, though that had been closer to a tracking drill than the hide and seek this seemed to be. The doctor had left the flat with a head start, and Mr. Holmes had tried to catch up with him. Dr. Watson had won that time with a bit of trickery, and Lestrade rather hoped he would do so again. Their bickering over the next week had been highly entertaining.

He turned another corner, giving that familiar flat a wide berth though he doubted Mr. Holmes was even home. The detective still had another hour before he could knock on Lestrade’s door, and he wondered if the doctor would stay hidden long enough for the hint to be needed.

* * *

He hurried down the steps, scanning the sidewalk for clues. He knew Watson had turned left in front of the flat, but after the trick Watson had played last time, Holmes knew initial direction meant nothing. He kept his eyes open.

There. That scrap of paper had been sticking out of Watson’s pocket this morning. He shoved the paper into his pocket, confident he was on the right trail.

But that was the only clue he found. It was too warm for a jacket, and Watson had not taken his cane, so while he could not have gone far, there was also very little chance of any clear tracks in the softer edges of the path.

A closer look revealed no tracks at all. His infuriating flatmate had traveled the exact middle of every sidewalk. Occasional footprints in each gutter might have been his, but there had been too many people walking the same place over the last thirty minutes to tell with any kind of certainty. He would have to pinpoint the location in other ways.

‘A place we both know,” Watson had said.

He nearly scoffed aloud. That covered far too many places in this city. Their cases had taken them almost everywhere, and while he doubted Watson would choose some place they had only been once, that still left over a hundred possible sites.

Only about half of those were in easy walking distance, however. Watson could not walk far without his cane, and he would have wanted to be hidden before Holmes left the flat. That narrowed the list considerably, and he turned toward the closest one. He would find Watson before Watson could finish reading the next chapter of that novel which had so absorbed him this afternoon.

* * *

The bolt hole contained very little in terms of comforts, though it would suffice for today. With only four walls, a roof, a ragged sofa, and some emergency supplies, the small room was supposed to be somewhere to go in time of need, a place to hide until it was safe.

This qualified, I supposed. Holmes needed something to do, and I needed a place to hide so he could do it. Holmes had established only a handful of bolt holes so close to the flat, so I dared to hope this would occupy him for a few hours while still letting him find me before dark. I would want something more than the bread and meat I had shoved in my pocket well before darkness fell, but Mrs. Hudson knew to hold supper for us. I could wait a few hours.

I settled into the ragged cushion, relieved that most of Holmes’ bolt holes had something that could suffice for a bed. I could feel only the slightest differences between the old sofa and the settee back at the flat, and I easily found a comfortable position. I soon lost myself in my book, reading by the sunlight drifting through the few windows Holmes had scattered around the small room.

The shadows were just beginning to lengthen when I heard the key turn in the lock, and I grinned. My watch showed it was barely supper time. Holmes had found me without the hint, and I glanced up from my book, a sarcastic comment on the tip of my tongue.

It was not Holmes, however, that stepped quickly through that door, and surprise coursed through me.

“Evening, Johnson.”

Shinwell Johnson had been working with Holmes for several years, helping to dig up bits of information for a variety of cases, though he did nothing that might require his testimony in court. He was a tall, muscular man, one that had become infamous as a violent criminal, but Johnson was a _former_ convict. He had repented and allied himself to Holmes, and his previous convictions granted him access to any number of places Holmes and I could never enter, even in disguise. He did not testify in court only because doing so would sever his ability to gather information.

He spun around at the words. “Doctor! What are you doing here?”

“Waiting on Holmes,” I said with a smirk. “He is supposed to meet me here eventually.” I glanced at my watch again, adding, “though I am beginning to wonder if he will find me before the time is up.”

Amusement flickered over the other man’s face, briefly showing his teeth in a quick grin. “You are playing a tracking game?” he asked.

I chuckled. “Of a sort,” I affirmed as he moved forward. “He wanted a case, and I cannot manufacture a murder for him. A missing person case is the next best thing. He has until dark to find me. Why are you here?”

“A gang tried to mug a crippled man on the next street,” he answered from the other end of the sofa. “I stopped them, but they were hot on my trail ‘fore I ducked in here. Figured I’d let the air cool a bit, if you know what I mean.”

I nodded. That was why Holmes had established this small room and the others like it. He or his contacts could duck into one at need, whether to avoid danger or simply get out of the weather. Holmes and I had taken shelter in one during a blizzard one year, and I had borrowed supplies another year when I had been without a home for a few days.

I glanced around the room, only just realizing that it had been _this_ bolt hole from which I had borrowed supplies that time. Holmes had seemed surprised when I told him the tarpaulin I had used as temporary shelter had come from one of his bolt holes, but he had quickly denied being irritated when I had apologized for using it. He had avoided this area for several months afterward, however. I hoped my choice in hiding places did not cause a problem.

I did not have long to think on it. Johnson asked a question about the book in my hand, and quiet conversation passed the time.

* * *

“Why are you so jumpy tonight, dear?”

He laughed, turning away from the window to look at where Liz cleaned up the supper dishes.

“Sorry, Liz. The doctor sent me a telegram before I left the office, saying that Mr. Holmes might be stopping by around supper. I keep expecting to find him on the front step.”

“Whatever for?” She put a clean plate away and reached for another to wash. “Are you working a case with him?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Not right now. Apparently, they have had just as few new cases as the Yard, and the doctor manufactured one by hiding somewhere in the city. I am to give Mr. Holmes a hint if he asks.”

His wife’s grin brightened the kitchen. “Those two never stop, do they?”

He laughed. “No, they don’t. They did something like this once before, you know, though I was not asked to keep a hint that time.”

Her grin widened, but a knock sounded before she could reply.

“Lestrade!” the detective’s voice carried through the door, followed by another impatient knock.

Liz waved him off with a laugh. “Go help the detective.”

Another knock sounded as he reached the front room, and he swung open the door to find a nervous detective on his front step.

“Still haven’t found him, then?” he asked with a smirk.

“Would I be here if I had?” Mr. Holmes shot back, scowling, but he continued before Lestrade could reply. “He said he gave you a clue?”

“He said for me to tell you to bolt.”

“’Tell me to bolt?’” he repeated, thinking. “Anything else?”

Lestrade shook his head. “His telegram said, ‘If he does not find me by supper, tell him to bolt.’ That’s all I know.”

Mr. Holmes nodded his thanks, obviously thinking hard as he turned away, but an idea seemed to hit him on the way back to the street. Lestrade closed the door as the detective disappeared into the crowd.

“Was the hint enough?” Liz asked when he reentered the kitchen.

Lestrade chuckled. “It might have been. He certainly moved with a purpose. I will have to ask Dr. Watson how it turned out.”

Liz made no reply, and the conversation eventually turned to other things.

* * *

_If he does not find me by supper, tell him to bolt._

The words circled his mind as he turned away from the door. The hint was certainly cryptic enough, but what could it mean?

 _Tell him to bolt._ Deciding that “bolt” was the hint, he started running through the word’s meanings. ‘Bolt’ could refer to speed, locking a door, or a length of cloth, in its most common and general senses, and he doubted Watson referred to either cloth or sprinting. That left only the lock. A door could be “bolted” shut, in which the bolt went into a hole before…

Wait. Bolt…hole. Bolt hole.

Understanding nearly hit him over the head, and his steps gained purpose. Watson had hidden in one of their bolt holes. Given that he could not have gone far, that narrowed the list considerably. He might even be able to find the right place before darkness fell.

He hurried up the street, aiming for the closest one, both to his current location and to the flat. If Watson had successfully hidden himself before Holmes left the flat, there were only a handful of places he might be.

The first one proved empty, a quick glance showing that the key had not been touched in weeks. He hurried to the second one without even opening the door.

That door had been opened recently, and he checked his surroundings before shoving the key into the lock. That room was empty, too, however, and he moved to the next.

The third had mud caked over the entry. The room was empty, but Holmes took a moment to clear the mud, hoping that no one had found the door with the mud as a clue. He would have to keep an eye on this one to make sure it had not been compromised.

There was only one more in the area, and he forced his steps in that direction. He had been hoping he would not have to go to that one, usually preferring to leave that one for his contacts or an emergency. That was the bolt hole Watson had used so many years ago, when Holmes had spent four long days thinking he had chased his friend away for good. Watson had ended up camping in Regent’s Park with only a borrowed tarpaulin for shelter, waiting for Lestrade to return from holiday so he could say goodbye before leaving London, and Holmes had only found him in time because one of the Irregulars had heard Bradstreet warning his gang away from the park for a few days. That bolt hole was a standing reminder of a near-failure.

He never liked dwelling on the knowledge that he had been mere hours away from Watson leaving London, never to return, and he certainly did not like going to a place that so clearly showed his blindness mere hours after thinking Watson was referring to something other than a city-wide game of hide and seek.

“The Case of the Missing Flatmate,” Watson had called this, unintentionally sending a shot of fear through Holmes. He had thought Watson was doing better, was finally starting to believe Holmes when Holmes said he wanted Watson’s presence, but those six words had brought back the worry that had consumed him each time he had thought Watson had left for good. He never wanted to feel that again, and he had only relaxed after Watson had clarified the terms of the game.

He could not deny he had enjoyed the last few hours, but enjoying the game did not mean he was pleased that Watson had chosen _this_ bolt hole in which to hide. Could he be trying to hint at something?

The alley appeared out of the crowd as the setting sun touched the buildings, and he hurried into the shadows. The key had been used recently, and he pushed aside the vines to unlock the door, stepping into the small room with a cautious glance behind him. It would not do to give away this location for a game, but he certainly did not want Watson able to claim that he had won _both_ rounds. It was bad enough he had won the first time.

“Cutting it rather close, Mr. Holmes.”

The door shut with a click, and he spun to find Shinwell Johnson sharing the room’s ragged sofa with Watson. A napkin from the sitting room, Watson’s novel, and a deck of playing cards lay between them, and Watson grinned at the surprise Holmes evidently failed to hide.

“How many times did you check the roof?”

Holmes scowled, moving further into the room as he noted that they had apparently shared the meat and bread Watson had brought as a snack, with Johnson contributing something that crumbled easily, probably crackers.

“Twice,” he admitted as Watson’s grin widened, “though you could have been less cryptic with the hint.”

Watson laughed. “Why? It obviously did not take you long to figure out which of the word’s twenty-odd meanings I intended.”

He fought to keep his amusement from showing as Johnson glanced between them.

“What was the hint?” he asked.

“I told him to bolt,” Watson answered when Holmes made no reply.

“To bolt?” Johnson repeated incredulously. “How did you know to come here, Mr. Holmes?”

Watson was apparently immune to his scowl, as that wide grin refused to diminish, and Holmes finally looked at Johnson.

“You have heard me call these hideaways ‘bolt holes,’” he answered, “and there are only so many within a thirty-minute walk from the flat.”

Johnson just shook his head. “That’s too much wordplay for me. Seems you both enjoyed yourselves, though.”

“I know I did,” Watson answered, pulling himself to his feet as Johnson gathered the playing cards. “I doubt Holmes will admit it, though.”

Holmes affected another scowl, but Watson merely grinned.

“Thank you for the card game,” Watson said as he pocketed the napkin.

“Not a problem, Doctor,” Johnson replied, shuffling the cards into a case he pulled from a pocket. “I was expecting a lonely afternoon. Mighty nice having company instead.”

Holmes tore his gaze from checking Watson to study Johnson. Was Johnson in a bind?

Watson saw the look even if Johnson did not. “I would think the coast will be clear by now.”

Johnson nodded. “Aye. I’ll give you blokes a chance to get clear before leaving myself. Good evenin’.”

The door shut behind them, and Holmes led Watson back towards the flat, stealing quick glances at his friend as they walked.

“Alright, Holmes?” Watson finally asked, obviously noting the frequent glances.

Watson’s manner was easy, with nothing to indicate that either the comment earlier or the hiding place had underscored any uncertainty or underlying question.

“Of course,” he answered, finally finding his words. “What made you choose that bolt hole?”

Watson tensed briefly, covering it by moving his book to the other hand. “That was the closest one to the closest telegraph office,” he answered. “You would have found me far too quickly if I had not hidden myself before you left the flat.”

Holmes’ answering smirk was only partially genuine. “And yet I still found you. You are getting predictable.”

“You have been saying that for years,” was the huffed reply, the barest hint of a laugh lurking beneath the words.

“It has been true for years.”

Watson rolled his eyes, but silence fell between them again.

“Was that all it was?” Holmes asked hesitantly.

The book changed hands again, though Watson’s words were as easy as before.

“What else would it be? I hardly expected Johnson to show up just before supper time, though it _was_ rather nice to talk over a quiet game of cards. I doubt even you could beat him at rummy.”

“That would not be hard, as I do not play rummy.”

Watson glanced up at him in surprise. “You don’t? It is just a variation of poker, and you seemed decent at poker during that case. I would not have expected Johnson to know it, however. I learned the game in India.”

Holmes pointedly looked away. “I consistently wore loose sleeves during that case.”

That started a laugh out of his friend, one he was pleased to note was fully genuine. “Of course you did,” Watson answered. “Well, that might serve as something to do tomorrow, then. I can teach you how to play poker and rummy—without cheating—and we can see if I can manage to beat you at chess again.”

A smirk tried to break free, and Holmes glanced up the street to smother it.

“You mean you will not play a round tonight?”

Watson huffed, unlocking the door and leading the way inside. “I want supper. I should have brought more than the bread and meat I grabbed on the way out the door, but after that, maybe.”

He followed his friend up the stairs, ensuring Watson’s back was turned before he allowed the grin to escape. Learning those card games would both pass the time and possibly become useful in future cases, but more importantly, Watson would not have suggested a game of chess if he were uncertain. Holmes had nothing to worry about.

A familiar scent reached his nose, and he bolted up the last few steps, entering the sitting room to find Watson claiming several pieces from the plate of shortbread on the table.

He could not let that mischievous smirk go unchallenged, and their bickering over the dessert lasted well through supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stories directly referenced here are Humbug #4, Child’s Play, Words Unspoken, and Home (Home is Watson’s pov of chapters 2 & 3 of Words Unspoken)


	21. Noise, Interruptions, and Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From A Very Holmesian Christmas: Scream

He quietly shuffled the papers in front of him, double checking the cook’s statement against the maid’s. This case was proving intriguing, if somewhat simple, and he had no interest in sleep despite the clock on the mantel reading the early hours of the morning. He needed to finish this case before he could sleep. His mind would never let him rest even if he tried.

He enjoyed working at this time of night, anyway. The pre-dawn hours carried no noise, no interruptions, and no expectations. He could read the same three pages of notes for three hours, and no one cared. Even pacing the room in thought did not bring an irritated rebuke, provided he did not pick up his violin at the same time.

Not that he would use the violin tonight. Both Watson and Mrs. Hudson had been showing signs of lack of sleep. Probably a by-product of their current pace—helping her sister with a sick child, Mrs. Hudson had been out of the flat more often than she was home, and Watson had been pushing himself to care for his patients around helping Holmes with his case—they still needed the rest. He could stay quiet tonight.

This was a simple case, anyway. Doss had provided an obviously false alibi, and another witness had placed him a block away about the time of the break-in. He just needed to find the proof that Doss had been in the house.

He turned another page, skimming Watson’s notes for the information he needed. His friend’s notes were always thorough, containing every small piece of the case both as a reference for the case itself and to help Watson write up the case later, and Holmes was grateful. His friend’s notes were much clearer than his own had ever been.

A knock sounded on the door below, breaking the silence with urgent pounding, and he pulled himself to his feet with a frown. Midnight visitors rarely signified anything good.

Descending the stairs quickly, he reached the landing below as another heavy knock nearly rattled the door. A familiar, young boy shifted restlessly on the steps, hand poised to knock again.

“Mr. Holmes!” Arthur panted. “Is Mrs. Hudson here?”

He nodded sharply, motioning the boy into the entry.

“Did her sister send you,” he asked, “and do you need Watson as well?”

Arthur nodded, then shook his head, gasping the words around his panting. “Don’t need the doctor. Just Mrs. Hudson.”

“Stay here.”

Leaving Arthur in the entry, he hurried down the hall toward Mrs. Hudson’s bedroom, and the door opened with a faint creak.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

There was no answer, and he moved closer.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

She woke with a sigh, rolling over and nestling into the covers.

“Mrs. Hudson, your sister sent Arthur for you.”

It took a moment for his words to register, and her eyes flew open to stare at him in the dim light.

“What did you just say?”

“Arthur is in the front room,” he answered. Mrs. Hudson always woke slowly. “Your sister sent him.”

She quickly pulled herself upright with a yawn, waving that she would be out in a moment, and he returned to the entry.

“Arthur.”

The boy started, glancing up at the rebuke before stepping away from the collection of maps in the umbrella holder.

“I weren’t touchin’ them!”

Holmes covered a smirk. “I would hope not. Mrs. Hudson will be out in a minute.”

Arthur nodded, beginning to wander the entry as Holmes turned away, and Mrs. Hudson’s quiet voice carried up the stairs as Holmes reached the sitting room. He settled back in front of his notes as the door closed behind them.

Silence fell again like a sigh of relief, and he relaxed into the chair.

The man had seen Doss a block away from the house at about half past ten. The maid had turned out the lights at ten and gone to bed, but the cook had gone for a glass of water around a quarter to eleven and noticed the china cabinet slightly open. Lighting a candle to confirm that it was empty, she had raised the alarm, and the house had been searched, but he had found nothing to tie Doss to the crime scene by the time he arrived.

He was missing something. He had no doubt that Doss was the culprit, but only evidence would lead to a conviction. He could not use a man’s reactions to vague questions as proof, nor could he use the fact that this matched every other burglary Doss had ever done—three of which Doss had acknowledged as his doing when there was not a second person nearby to count as a witness. This was growing frustrating.

He flipped back through the notes. He had arrived at the scene early the next morning, around seven. Both the cook and the couple who owned the house insisted that nothing had been touched aside from ascertaining what was missing. Nothing had changed rooms, and nothing had been cleaned, but there had been a noticeable clean spot on one windowsill in an unused room, as well as tracks in the rug both to and from that window. The intruder had jimmied the window open but either did not try or was unable to lock it on his exit. Most of the silver and the best of the dishes on display in the front room had been taken, showing the burglar had known something of fine china and which fit Doss’ pattern, and with the sole exception of the china cabinet door, the intruder had carefully avoided moving anything he did not take with him. The burglary would not have been noticed until well into the day if the sharp-eyed cook had not woken thirsty.

He nearly growled his frustration. There had to be _something_ tying Doss to the scene. Even such a skilled burglar could not be error free, and he knew he had spotted something earlier. The simple, pivotal clue was directly in front of him, if only he could _find_ it!

Sometimes changing one’s perspective physically, Mother had said so many years before, could change it mentally. Roughly gathering the papers, he moved to the middle of the floor and sprawled on the rug before starting back at the beginning.

The maid had turned out the lights at ten—

_“HOLMES!”_

The scream shattered the silence, and he abandoned the papers to lunge to his feet, rushing for the stairs. Was Watson under attack?

A louder, wordless scream echoed through the flat as he climbed the stairs, only to cut off abruptly when Watson landed on the floor with a solid _thump_ as Holmes reached the upper landing. Holmes forced himself to stop in the doorway. It was a nightmare, not a break-in, and it would do no good to startle his friend after such a nightmare.

“Watson?” he asked quietly, peering into the darkened room. Movement caught his eye, and he stepped forward as Watson pulled himself off the floor to sit on the bed. Watson kept his back to the door and put his face in his hands, apparently not hearing Holmes enter as he tried to calm down.

“Watson?” Holmes said again, purposely creaking the loose board.

Watson started faintly before waving his hand in acknowledgement, and Holmes moved to stand next to the bed. He would not break the silence, content to let Watson speak when he was ready, but he would also not leave his friend alone until he was sure Watson had truly broken free of the vision.

“Just a dream,” Watson finally muttered, and Holmes smothered a sigh of relief.

“The fire is still burning in the sitting room.”

Watson hesitated but nodded, following him down the stairs. He stepped around the papers on the floor without thought, aiming straight for the decanter on the mantel and glancing at Holmes in silent question.

He shook his head, and Watson poured himself a glance before settling in his chair, all without a word.

Where the silence earlier had been relaxing, this one was tense, and he eyed his friend even as he moved back toward his notes.

“Alright, Watson?” he finally asked when Watson remained silent.

Watson nodded quickly, firmly, but still he said nothing. Holmes gathered the papers from the floor to move to the settee, watching his friend more than he read.

“A case?” he finally asked gently. It was unusual for Watson to stay silent for so long, even after a nightmare.

Watson hesitated but shook his head, flicking his hand to say he would not speak of it, and Holmes frowned. He could think of only a few things Watson would refuse to discuss.

His friend took another sip, finally finding his words. “The burglary?” he asked quietly with a gesture at the notes in Holmes’ hand.

Holmes nodded, readjusting on the settee though his gaze never left where Watson slowly began relaxing into his chair. “I know that Doss is responsible, but there is nothing to tie him to the scene.” He flipped the pages again, skimming the notes but fully aware of the way Watson stared at him. “I am missing something.”

Watson did not answer immediately, and Holmes alternated between studying his friend and skimming his notes. His friend had only partially relaxed, still sitting as if he half-expected an attack in their sitting room, and his gaze flicked between Holmes and the door. His hand gripped the glass only just hard enough to whiten his knuckles, though he continued sipping the brandy more than drinking it. He knew the dream was a dream, but something about it had rattled him.

Watson’s gaze strayed toward the fire—or the mantel—and the solution bloomed. Holmes looked back at his notes, unsure how to address the recurrence of the nightmares that had tormented Watson during the first week of their stay in Cornwall. Only his busy schedule had prevented a problem before now. They had returned to London the week before, and Watson had been working all hours to keep up with both the patients Agar had taken while they were gone and Holmes’ newest cases.

An idea struck him, and he smothered a frown in the paper.

“How many patients have you seen in the last few days?”

Watson’s hand tightened on the glass, but he shook his head, refusing to answer and giving Holmes more information than any carefully worded response could have. That incident with Carter—or perhaps the last overdose—had been tormenting Watson since they returned to London, if not longer. He had not been busy with patients; he had probably been wandering the streets in an attempt to tire himself out enough that he would not dream.

That had obviously failed, and Holmes thought it over, trying to decide how to help. Should he try to discuss it or provide a distraction?

Watson answered his question for him. “Did you ever determine from where the finger came?”

Holmes frowned, glancing at the notes then back up at Watson. There had been no body parts in this case.

“Which finger?”

“The index finger of a glove that the maid found under the bed.”

He flipped back through the notes, suddenly recalling the maid’s offhand comment. Revelation washed over him. _That_ was the missing piece. Doss had cut a finger from his glove when he jimmied the window, and the piece of cloth had fallen from his pocket to be kicked under the bed in the dark. That simple comment was what he had been missing for the last several hours.

Watson faintly smirked at the excitement Holmes failed to hide. “You forgot about it.”

Holmes nodded. “I will take this to Lestrade in the morning.” He glanced up at where Watson sat in his chair. His friend had relaxed slightly, but he still had not stopped studying Holmes. “Do you want company?”

Watson shook his head. “Go to bed. I’ll follow you shortly.”

Holmes hesitated but finally set the papers aside. He would be able to sleep now that he had solved the case, and there was no reason not to let his friend have the sitting room, though he did try to help even in leaving the room.

If finding Watson sound asleep on the settee the next morning was any indication, he had been right to leave his bedroom door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m apparently on a trend, but really, what else can you do with that prompt? Plot bunnies don’t like screaming, lol, and I had to coax this one out with carrots.
> 
> Directly references Divide and Conquer


	22. Cooking Up Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt at the end to avoid spoilers

“Holmes, what are you doing?”

He waved me off, focused on the various ingredients, compounds, and equipment spread over his chemistry table.

“Mrs. Hudson will probably take exception to you cooking up here,” I told him, then thought about what I had just said. “Mrs. Hudson will probably take exception to you experimenting with food up here.”

He smirked at my rephrasing. We both knew how little time he spent in the kitchen, and I highly doubted anything he did—even if it involved food—could qualify as _cooking._

“She mentioned something about going to the market after checking on her niece,” he replied, gaze still on whatever he was doing, “and not to expect back her for a few hours.”

“You cannot really think she will not realize you were in her kitchen? She is going to come after you with that spatula again.”

He huffed but made no reply, and I moved slightly closer, finally recognizing his various supplies. I tried to smother my amusement.

“Are you trying to make eggnog?”

The tips of his ears turned red, and I nearly laughed. Holmes had never cared for the drink until Mrs. Hudson made it, and she had repeatedly refused to give him the recipe. Something in this most recent case must have brought it to mind, given that it was almost as far from Christmas as the calendar could get, and he had decided to experiment until he made one that tasted right.

I turned away, seeing no reason to watch him search for a recipe I already knew, and he resumed experimenting—and occasionally tasting. He would not discover Mrs. Hudson’s recipe no matter how long he tried, considering he had not grabbed her secret ingredient, but searching for it would occupy him for a while. He had not yet started another case after helping Lestrade set a trap for Doss, and I would unashamedly use anything to prevent him from falling into one of his Black Moods.

He began mixing small amounts of various alcohols into the beakers lined up on his table, tasting each one—and making a face when he found the opposite of his goal—and I settled in my chair. An incoming storm had been making my leg ache for most of the morning, and I planned to use a newly released novel as an excuse to spend the rest of the day in front of the fire.

“Any progress?” I asked several hours later as I changed that book for another.

He shook his head, gaze on the oddly colored mixture in front of him as he stirred. He had disappeared a couple of times, presumably to steal more ingredients from the kitchen, and the liquid in his beaker no longer even remotely resembled the drink he was trying to create.

“You should probably toss that out and try again,” I told him.

He ignored me, carefully dripping small amounts of what appeared to be brandy as he stirred, and I finally noticed the burner heating the mixture.

“You remember that alcohol is flammable, right?”

“Of course,” he answered distractedly.

I huffed and opened my book, though I eyed his experiment instead of beginning to read. I had not been paying attention to what he was doing, but something about that mixture looked familiar.

The memory refused to come, and I gave up after a moment, trying to force myself to read.

I could not seem to focus on my book, however, and I watched as he added small amounts of nearly everything on his table. The mixture changed color again, then it began bubbling, and I suddenly realized what about it seemed so familiar.

“Holmes, move!”

I dropped my book and lunged to my feet to grab his collar. Quickly pulling him away from the table, pain flared in my leg as I lost my balance, and he landed on top of me as a ball of fire exploded from the beaker, filling the place where he had been standing.

We ended up tangled on the floor, he pinning me down as my leg violently protested the awkward position, and my breath caught in my throat. The more violent spasms always took over my full awareness, and the room tinged red from the pain shooting through that old injury. I resisted the urge to go limp as I waited for it to pass.

Struggling to think past the pain in my leg, I only faintly noticed how quickly he stood when the mixture began to bubble again, but the spasm finally eased as he moved the beaker to the side.

“Watson?” he asked when I still had not moved after he killed the flame.

I gradually managed a full breath, waving an acknowledgement as I slowly pushed myself into a sitting position. It had been several months since I had last experienced a spasm that strong, and I always seemed to forget just how painful they were. It would be another moment before I caught my breath enough to speak.

Concern appeared in his gaze as he moved closer. “Are you injured?”

I shook my head, using his chair to pull myself to my feet as I finally found my words.

“Are you?” I could not quite hide how breathless the spasm had left me, but making sure Holmes was uninjured was far more important.

Faint amusement mixed with the concern as he glanced between me and the table.

“No. You were fast enough. What happened?”

I did not answer for a long moment, trying not to limp as I used the furniture to keep my balance. I nearly fell into my chair instead of sitting.

“Not sure,” I finally replied. “I just realized your experiment looked the same as one my brother made when we were children. His fireball was smaller, though. He only lost his eyebrows.” Holmes would have sustained second-degree burns, at least. I was glad I had reacted quickly enough.

He glanced again at the table, his concern over the way I massaged my bad leg warring with his curiosity at what had caused the reaction. Concern won out after barely a moment, and he sat in his chair, studying me silently.

“I’m fine, Holmes,” I said when he remained silent for too long. “My leg just spasmed when I tripped.”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking to where I still massaged a tight spot in my thigh, and I forced myself to stop.

“Seriously. Stop staring at me as if you expect me to collapse.”

He huffed, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “stubborn” though his gaze remained on me, and I glanced between him and the beaker still sitting on his table.

“You could simply _ask_ her to make it for you, you know,” I finally told him.

He affected a scowl at the smirk I could not quite hide.

“I tried that,” he answered. “She kicked me out of the kitchen.”

I leaned back into my chair, studying him and trying to ignore the twinge still shooting down my leg. “And what did you say _before_ she kicked you out of her kitchen?”

His ears turned red, and I smothered a chuckle. She had probably told him to wait, first, perhaps because she was about to leave, and he had not been able to silence an impatient remark. Knowing him well enough to not let it bother her would not prevent her form of revenge.

“Did she use the spatula?”

His answering harrumph was probably a _no,_ I decided, though that did nothing to help the amusement coursing through me. He got up before I could comment, however, moving back toward the table and starting to clean up.

Reaching for the book that had fallen to the floor, I propped my still-aching leg close to the fire and settled in to read. He continued glancing at me, obviously making sure I was not hiding some true injury caused by him landing on me, and I soon tired of the attention.

“You did warn me,” I finally said, my gaze never leaving the page though I paid more attention to him than the book.

Faint confusion crossed his face, and I knew he did not recall my reference. I looked up with a wide smirk.

“Apparently, your tendency to catch Christmas decorations on fire applies to anything related to Christmas and for the entire year.”

The scowl he affected could not quite cover the amusement beneath, but he did stop checking me for injury. I returned to my novel as he started taking various ingredients back downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From cjnwriter: combustible egg nog


	23. A Matter of Opinion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From cjnwriter: "Holmes realizes he doesn't dislike Christmas as much as he used to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References Phases of Life and Beginnings

“I have an appointment in the morning,” Watson’s voice came over the line, “but I should be there by suppertime.”

Alone in the cottage, there was no reason to hide the smile trying to break free. Watson had originally thought he would have to take the last train of the night for a long Christmas holiday, but suppertime meant the difference of several hours. Holmes wished he could cancel that last patient so his friend could take the early train.

“Stackhurst agreed to let me borrow his cart,” he replied. “I will meet you at the station.”

There was a brief pause, and a muffled noise carried faintly over the line, irritating him yet again at his inability to see the person to whom he spoke. Face to face, he would know what had happened, but over the telephone, he could only wait for Watson to return.

“Alright, Holmes,” Watson said a moment later, his words still somewhat muffled. Perhaps his maid had announced a late patient, and his next words seemed to confirm this, “I need to go. Try not to burn down the tree I sent before I get there?”

“What about after you get here?”

Silence carried over the line. “I’m not going to answer that,” Watson eventually replied, and Holmes smothered a laugh. His friend had been trying to keep his own amusement from leaking into the words. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The maid called something in the background, and the line went dead. He hung the earpiece back in its place and scanned the sitting room, searching for something to do. He had already picked up his notes and made sure Watson’s room was clean, but his gaze landed on the tree that had arrived early that morning.

It was small, barely six feet tall though needles thickly covered the branches, and the room already smelled of evergreen. Watson had ordered the tree after a conversation the previous week, telling Holmes to expect a large delivery and that he—Watson—would take care of it when he arrived, and Holmes had smothered a grin when the laughing delivery boy had dropped the tree on the front step. He knew Watson had scowled into the ‘phone when the answer to his question on decorations had been, “why bother?” but he had not expected Watson to order a tree. Besides, that had been before Watson had confirmed he was coming to Sussex. The answer was different now, and Holmes debated whether he wanted to let Watson put his ornaments on the tree or if he wanted to decorate it himself as a surprise with the box of ornaments Mrs. Hudson had sent.

The look on Watson’s face when he first saw the decorated tree would make the hassle worth it, Holmes decided, and he dug the box out of Watson’s wardrobe. Setting the tree in a corner well away from the fireplace, he started hanging the ornaments and a few unlit candles from the branches, and the evening passed slowly.

* * *

Sunrise found him walking the beach, bundled against the chill and unable to sleep. None of his books held any interest, the bees were well into their winter brooding, and the front door even had a wreath. There was nothing more for him to do.

Why did the time have to pass so _slowly?_

Watson needed to retire. Holmes did not remember solitude grating this much when he was younger, but it was almost Christmas. Watson needed to be _here_ , fussing with his abundant decorations, cooking in the kitchen, swatting Holmes away from the batter for the most recent sweet. Christmas should not be this quiet.

His wandering footsteps faltered. When had he started thinking of Christmas as a time to be together, a day to spend in their rooms instead of off by himself? He had decided at twelve years old that Christmas was a worthless holiday, one better not to observe because it was more likely to take than to give. What had changed?

Memory bloomed, and he huffed in amusement. Watson was what had changed, of course. Starting with the surprise gift that first year, Watson had launched his own campaign that had slowly changed a true dislike into a playful dislike and the playful dislike into a true enjoyment, all without Holmes noticing enough to care—or even noticing at all. Christmas had become a day when he knew his friend would have no patients, no errands, no plans except a day in the sitting room or following Holmes on a case. Watson had not even seemed truly irritated the few years they had ended up working on Christmas, provided they were together. Provided he was not alone.

Alone. The word rang through his mind. It had taken him far too long to realize that his stalwart friend feared being alone above all else, but this was not a fear of the solitude that came from living alone or not having family nearby. No, his friend feared being truly alone, of having no one he could trust, no one on whom he could rely. That was why he had taken the news of Holmes’ retirement so badly: he had thought Holmes was leaving instead of simply moving, informing rather than offering. Holmes had come far closer to truly hurting his friend that day than he had in many years.

He would learn from it, however, and he doubted Watson would react the same way to today’s surprise. Watson would not expect the tree to be decorated, nor would he expect the wreath on the front door, though Holmes would imply Mrs. Hudson sent it before ever admitting that he had picked it up in town the day Watson had confirmed his travel plans. There were some things Watson simply did not need to know.

His friend did need to get here, however, but a glance at the sun hanging just above the horizon showed just how many hours Holmes would have to wait. Maybe he could distract himself with a walk to town later. That would kill an hour or two, more if he ran into another beekeeper. He knew of four others in the area, and all of them were eager to exchange stories and tips. Perhaps one would have an idea of what the best flower would be to plant this year. One of them had mentioned that the honey changed flavor depending on the nearby flowers, and he was eager to start experimenting with it in the spring.

He turned away from the water with a sigh, deciding he may as well go back to the cottage, though doing nothing there was hardly any better than doing nothing next to the waves. He wandered more than he walked back, but he lengthened his stride as the small house appeared in the early morning light. He had not expected someone to be walking away from the door through the shadows near the west wall.

A frown appeared on his face as an idea crossed his mind. Had Watson sent a message that he would not make his train? That had happened many times since opening his new practice, but he did not think his friend would let patients interfere with Christmas.

Hearing his footsteps when Holmes crossed a patch of rocks, the person stopped and turned to face him. The man purposely stayed in the darkest shadow as Holmes hurried forward, and a tentative hope sparked. The shadows were too dark to identify the figure, but why else would they stay out of sight if not—

He could not bring himself to finish the thought, but he did pick up his pace. The visitor waited until just before Holmes would have been able to identify him before speaking.

“I never figured you for a wreath,” was Watson’s amused greeting.

Holmes affected a scowl, trying to hide his delight as Watson stepped into the sunlight.

“Mrs. Hudson threatened to drag me back to London,” he replied, skipping the pleasantries Watson never expected anyway. What he had said was true: Mrs. Hudson _had_ threatened to drag him back to London, but that had been months ago and had nothing to do with the wreath now on the door.

Watson laughed, leaning heavily on his cane though the weather in Sussex was much warmer than London. “Again? She told me she did that when she found the last set of burnt curtains you hid in the settee.”

Holmes’ scowl became slightly more genuine as he joined Watson in front of the door. He had not realized Watson knew about that.

“What happened to the patient this morning?” he asked.

His friend’s grin grew more mischievous, both at the question and at the change of topic. Watson knew what he had done.

“I never said I had a patient,” was the reply. “I said I had an _appointment._ ” Watson stared at him, evidently enjoying Holmes’ realization that his friend had tricked him using the same method he himself had just tried. Watson gestured to indicate their surroundings. “I made my appointment,” he continued wryly, “though _you_ were nearly late. Did you sleep on the beach last night?”

Holmes shook his head, quickly opening the door to avoid admitting to a sleepless night, and he glanced back as Watson walked inside.

His friend’s gaze immediately landed on the tree, and surprised pleasure crossed his face, eliciting that slow grin for which Holmes had been hoping. Watson dropped his valise in the corner on his way across the room.

“I did not expect you to decorate it,” he admitted with a grin. His surprise renewed as he looked closely at one of the ornaments. “These are Mrs. Hudson’s!”

Holmes nodded, coming closer. “They arrived at my door last week, along with a note to the effect that the flat was far too empty to have so many decorations and I needed to ‘liven the cottage up a bit.’”

He approximated Mrs. Hudson’s voice, and Watson laughed as he pulled a small bag out of his valise. “She said something very similar to me,” he answered, and Holmes glanced into the bag to find several more of the ornaments he remembered from Baker Street.

Holmes huffed in feigned irritation as Watson started placing his ornaments among the branches. “We do not need any more decorations.”

“I disagree.” Watson’s voice moved behind the tree. “You forgot to hang any on the back, Holmes!”

He rolled his eyes. “What is the point of putting any on the back? You will not be standing back there most of the time, anyway.”

A branch flicked him on the shoulder. “Ornaments should be spread evenly around the tree. We have been over this.”

Of course they had, but he knew Watson enjoyed the old argument just as much as he did, and he shot back the expected response.

“You said ornaments are for viewing, therefore there is no reason to hide some ornaments on the back of the tree.” He paused, as if the thought had just occurred to him, then poked his head around to peer at where Watson slowly emptied his bag. “Unless she sent you the ugly ones?” He tried to look at which ornaments Watson was draping over the branches.

“Holmes!”

One of the knitted shapes flew towards his head, and he ducked, hiding his grin in the branches. Holidays were much better with company—specific company, anyway, and he retrieved the thrown ornament from the floor.

“Holmes, we are not putting the elephant where the star belongs!”

He merely allowed his grin to widen as he did it anyway. Watson would move it later if it bothered him.


	24. Quiet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From sirensbane: Christmas Eve tradition

“…which is how Ellis could appear to be in two places at once.”

Watson leaned back in his chair, considering the strategy as he took another sip of coffee.

“What about the papers?” he asked. “The ones he carried never seemed to change, but you say they did?”

Holmes nodded. “It was a fine strategy, relying on speed and timing, but the one mistake was his downfall.”

Watson made a noise in the back of his throat instead of replying, and silence fell between them as he turned to stare into the flames. Holmes studied his friend in the firelight.

Much had changed, both since Holmes had left and since his return several months prior. Some of the haunted look had finally started to fade from Watson’s eyes, and he had filled out, losing that gaunt, dismal air that had followed him the previous spring and summer. His eyes still carried an uneasy wariness, however, and Holmes was beginning to wonder if that would ever fade. Watson was far quieter now, slower to find amusement in anything, and it had been over a fortnight since Holmes had last seen him laugh or even genuinely smile. Watson’s love of Christmas warred with the grief and reticence he had gained over the previous year, and Holmes was still struggling with how to help. He had never been good at this kind of thing.

Silent company was better than no company at all, however. This way, he knew Watson was not sitting alone in his bedroom. This was only his first or second Christmas without Mary.

Holmes would have preferred to get his friend talking again, but he eventually joined Watson in watching the flames, unable to think of a new topic. Staring would do nothing but lead to an awkward conversation, and he allowed his thoughts to wander as he enjoyed a quiet morning.

“Holmes?” Watson finally broke the silence.

He roused himself, tearing his gaze away from the fire to see a hesitant question in Watson’s eyes.

“What did you do last year?” Watson asked after a moment, not needing to specify that he referenced the holiday.

Holmes thought for a moment, trying to remember. He had moved so frequently that the places had quickly blended together, but a memory slowly came of a small village near the border, one holding more memories of peace than of snow. He allowed a smile to escape.

“The week of Christmas was also my first week in France,” he answered. “I stayed in a shack in a border town for Christmas Eve, trying to stay out of the blizzard blanketing the region, but a knock sounded on my door Christmas Day. A neighbor had noticed me rent the room a few days before and had grown worried when I never emerged after the storm. When he saw the state of my room, he invited me to the village Christmas dinner. Few of them knew even a word of English, and I knew nothing of their dialect, but they welcomed me. The last Christmas was probably the best of the three.”

Their evident enjoyment of the holiday had made him think of Watson, actually, but the words to say as much refused to come. Watson turned away, memory flickering in his gaze, but he spoke again before Holmes could try to reciprocate the question.

“How long were you there?”

Holmes shook his head in answer. “I left on Boxing Day, disappearing into the rural surroundings on my way to a hideout Mycroft had prepared. I would not have stopped at all if not for that storm.”

Silence fell again, and Holmes waited, unsure how to ask but hoping Watson would answer anyway.

“We held Christmas dinner,” he finally said, his quiet words directed into the fire instead of at Holmes. The slow words grew even quieter as he continued, “Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, several of the former Irregulars, and a couple of others from the Yard crowded into that small house on Christmas Eve, and the next day, Mary…” The sentence trailed off, Watson’s gaze focusing deeper into the fire as his thoughts skipped through the months. He did not resume speaking, but the door opened behind them before Holmes could draw him back to the present.

“It sure is quiet up here,” Mrs. Hudson said, carrying a late breakfast toward the table.

Watson pulled himself out of his thoughts and presented a half-smile. “Enjoy it while you can,” he told her. “Who knows when Holmes might take off after some case.”

Mrs. Hudson laughed, and Holmes tried to hide his own amusement. Watson’s pawky humor had been slow to return, and Holmes enjoyed every appearance no matter how muted.

“You might be safe today,” she answered, grinning widely as she spread the dishes over the table. “Not even a Yarder has walked the street in hours.”

Faint amusement crossed Watson’s face. “You and I both know he does not need a client to find a case.”

Holmes affected a scowl, pleased when the action made Watson fight off a smirk. The mischief sparking faintly in Watson’s gaze was far better than the sorrowful memories that had been there a moment before.

“Cases are easier when I have a client,” he replied, watching to see if Watson would take the opening.

He did, his huff of suppressed laughter carrying across the room. “Since when do you want a case to be _easy?”_

Mrs. Hudson laughed again, and her eye caught Holmes’ as she took the empty tray back downstairs. She was just as glad as he was to see Watson so relaxed.

“Christmas Eve would be a day for an easy case,” he decided, watching to see if his friend would agree. “It would pass the day without interfering with the package you tried to hide in your desk earlier.”

Watson rolled his eyes. “Three years has not helped your tendency to deduce your present, I see.”

“Of course not.” Holmes pulled himself to his feet, following Watson toward the meal steaming on the table. “No more than it changed how much I enjoy our cases.”

Holmes watched his friend as they sat, hoping for a sarcastic reply, but Watson opened his mouth, then closed it, trying to hide his hesitation by filling his plate. Holmes frowned. What had made Watson stop talking?

He had no idea how to ask, but Watson changed the topic as Holmes filled a plate of his own.

“What is your favorite Christmas tradition?” A small grin appeared, feigned but welcome. “Caroling?”

Holmes scowled, and Watson’s grin became slightly more genuine at the muttered, “Humbug,” that carried across the table.

“Christmas dinner,” he decided was the safest answer.

Mischief lit Watson’s gaze again. “You just like the pies.”

There was no reason to deny that, but he rolled his eyes instead of nodding.

“What is wrong with that? I have yet to see _you_ match Mrs. Hudson’s meringue.”

“She taught it to me last year,” Watson answered, “and I made lemon meringue pie for Christmas dinner.”

Holmes smothered a grin. Watson had been struggling with meringue for years. “What was the result?”

Watson shrugged, swallowing a bite before answering, “The meringue deflated some, but not much. I thought about trying again this year, but Mrs. Hudson has been so busy in the kitchen, I decided not to get in her way.”

“I doubt she would see it that way.” Holmes kept his gaze on his plate, though he was more aware of Watson’s expression than the food. Mrs. Hudson had noted just the other day that it was strange not to share the kitchen with the doctor for the last week. “You should try after breakfast. I could help.”

Watson’s amusement flickered into view. “You mean you could steal the ingredients,” he chided.

That was the same thing, but a knock on the door below cut off his answer. Voices carried, then footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway a moment later.

“Messenger for you downstairs, Mr. Holmes. He says he won’t come up.”

He pushed his chair away from the table with a frown. What would anyone want on Christmas Eve? He had no wish to go anywhere today, and the cold, blustery weather had been doing a fine job at preventing anyone from knocking on his door.

A young ostler fidgeted in the entryway, nervous yet carrying a non-urgent message, and he turned immediately as Holmes appeared on the stairs.

“Mr. Holmes?” he confirmed. “Mrs. Goodwin sent me,” he continued when Holmes nodded, referring to one of Holmes’ recent clients. “More things have been moved. We found the silver in the linen closet and the linens in the coal bin.”

Holmes did not answer immediately, thinking. The page had already confessed to the earlier pranks, and he did not think the young man would resume. Had he missed an accomplice, or was this a copy leading up to something larger?

“Has anyone been injured?” he asked. “Attacked?”

The man shook his head.

“Has anything gone missing?”

Again, the answer was no. He would have to see the scene to get a better idea of the case, but footsteps cut off his next question. He glanced up to see Watson disappearing, headed back into the sitting room from where he had been leaning over the railing. He clearly expected Holmes to jump on a new case.

Watson would never admit it, but Holmes did not need to ask to know that one of Watson’s favorite Christmas traditions was a quiet couple of days at the flat. He would follow without a word, without Holmes even needing to ask, but Holmes would not ask. There was nothing urgent about this case.

“Tell her to expect me in two days,” he told the man. “I have something I must complete in London first.”

The door closed behind the messenger a moment later, and Holmes hurried up the stairs.

“Watson?”

His friend looked up from digging through his desk for a journal. “When do we leave?”

“In two days,” Holmes replied, enjoying the surprise that crossed Watson’s expression. “So there is no reason for you to find that journal instead of finishing breakfast.”

Watson stared at him, one hand still in the desk drawer and surprise on his face as he realized Holmes was in earnest.

“But it is a case, Holmes. You were complaining the other day about having nothing to do.”

Holmes waved him off, taking his seat at the table as Watson regained his feet. “I _have_ something to do. You were going to ask Mrs. Hudson if you could borrow the kitchen, and I was going to help make meringue.” He paused, then added, “Unless she plans on coming after me with that spatula again, in which case, I will watch from the doorway.”

A grin twitched Watson’s mouth as he crossed the room, though he did not let it escape. “If you would stop trying to steal the sugar, she would not chase you from the kitchen so frequently.”

Holmes huffed and shot back his own response, noticing the way Watson relaxed into the chair. Watson enjoyed their cases, but he also enjoyed the occasional breaks between cases. He had not expected Holmes to postpone the case, was viewing it as an unexpected Christmas gift and responding accordingly. Holmes knew he had made the right decision when his friend finally allowed the bickering Holmes had been trying to instigate all morning.

It was not like he had given anything up. Watson was not the only one who enjoyed a quiet Christmas.


	25. Scrooge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From W. Y. Traveller: Festivities gone awry.

“I’m sorry, Holmes. You know I cannot control the weather, and my patient absolutely refused to reschedule. The storm rolling in will likely stop the trains overnight, and you know nothing runs on Christmas.”

There was a long delay before a quiet response came over the line. “I understand, Watson. You will come as soon as the rails clear?”

“Of course. My neighbor promised to cover my practice through the second. I will be on the first train out, tomorrow afternoon as originally scheduled if I am wrong about the storm.”

There was another pause. “You have not been wrong in years.”

I could not smother a laugh, readjusting in the chair I had placed beneath the telephone as both leg and shoulder announced the coming storm. If I was right, the ice and snow would shut down the rails for a good part of Christmas Eve. I would not make it to Sussex unless I canceled my morning appointment, and my patient was an avid hypochondriac. His dramatic protests had stopped any further attempts at rescheduling.

“Then we can hope this is a first for that,” I replied. “Otherwise, it will be the first time I do not make it out there for Christmas since you retired.”

“There is a simple way to solve this problem,” he said a moment later, his stoic tone belying the amusement I heard leaking into his voice, and I rolled my eyes.

“I suppose you could petition the engineers to find a way through the snow,” I replied, pretending to miss his meaning.

I could almost see the scowl he leveled at the ‘phone. “That would never work, and you know it.”

I laughed. “I will send a telegram when I know my train. Do refrain from burning down the Christmas tree, would you?”

He huffed. “No promises.”

The line went dead before I could reply, and I hung up the earpiece, trying not to wince as I pulled myself out of the chair. My old injuries had woken me early this morning, and my heart had sunk when the ache only increased, forcing me to use my cane indoors by midday. There was a storm moving in, and the more warning the scars gave me, the worse the storm would be. If it did not break until midmorning Christmas Eve, as I suspected, I would never be able to catch a train to Sussex before the ice closed the tracks.

I dragged the chair back to its place at the table and limped towards the sitting room, trying not to look at how dreary my house was. I always enjoyed decorating for the holiday, but planning to go to Sussex for both Christmas and the start of the new year meant there had been no reason to do more than some basic decorating. A bit of garland and a half-decorated tree were the only bits of greenery visible, and that was almost as depressing as spending Christmas alone. I truly hoped I was wrong about the storm, that the trains would not stop tomorrow and I would be able to go as planned, but I doubted it. As Holmes had said, I had not been wrong about a large storm for several years. I would be stuck in London until Boxing Day at least, if not the day after.

I would have liked to at least decorate, but I could not even do that now. I had no decorations to hang, and my leg nearly buckled just crossing the room to my chair. I would just have to make do with the garland and tree.

Claiming a book from the shelf, I sank onto the settee with a sigh. The ticking clock announced the last train of the night had just left, and I could not help but think I would have been on it if not for the one patient who refused to reschedule. It had been many years since Holmes and I had not spent the holiday together, whether at his cottage in Sussex or at our old flat, and I could hardly claim to look forward to it this year.

There was nothing I could do about it now, though. I forced the wish from my mind and focused on my book. Perhaps if I stayed next to the fire for a few more hours, I would be able to sleep tonight.

Footsteps roused me, and I opened my eyes without remembering closing them. I lay on the settee, the fire reduced to embers as the moon shone faintly through the window, and the footsteps came from my practice.

My book fell to the side as I sat up, and I stretched, fighting to wake. The holiday made no difference to a medical emergency, and footsteps would not be coming from my practice unless I had a patient. I needed to be awake enough to deal with a worried family member.

Gently stretching my aching shoulder once more, I grabbed my cane and limped to the connected practice. The storm had not yet broken, as I had suspected, and the deep, throbbing ache had only gotten worse despite the heat of the fire.

“Hello?” I called as I drew closer to the connecting door. “Did I miss a knock?”

“No, Doctor,” came the quiet, rasping reply. “You gave me a key, and I hoped to borrow your consulting room for the night.”

I moved faster, unable to believe my ears. I _knew_ that voice, had helped my friend perfect the disguise that _went_ with that voice, but Holmes had never shown an interest in visiting London. In the years since he had retired, he had only come to visit me a handful of times.

Eliminate the impossible, he had always said, and it was highly improbable that someone would share the voice Holmes had chosen for one of his disguises—even more so that I would have given them a key without remembering as much.

“Holmes?” I ventured.

I reached the doorway without hearing an answer, and a tall shadow stood near the front door, two smaller shadows on the floor nearby.

“I suppose I should have chosen a different voice,” Holmes said, moving to stand in the faint fire light.

I blinked, making sure I was truly seeing him standing in my waiting room, and I felt a wide grin cross my face.

“Holmes!”

A faint smile twitched his mouth at my obvious surprise, and the two smaller shadows became travel bags in the light of a nearby candle.

“You are not the only one that can catch a train unannounced,” he informed me.

“I am glad of that!” I waved him toward the living area, eyeing his bags as I led the way with the candle. How long had he planned on staying?

“It might be nice to observe the new year in London,” he answered my unspoken question.

My grin could not get any wider, but it did not need to. He knew what I thought of that.

Reaching the sitting room, I stoked the fire as he set his bags in the spare room, and the clock struck ten as he carried a small bag toward the settee.

“What did you bring?” I asked, gingerly regaining my feet after kneeling in front of the hearth.

He made no answer, merely pulling several small items from the bag, and the firelight glinted off familiar shapes. I moved closer.

“Did you—” I stopped next to the settee, staring. Holmes had brought _ornaments,_ and two lengths of garland piled onto the settee next to them. Holmes had been planning to decorate the cottage again instead of waiting for me to do it, and he had brought the decorations with him.

Another grin twitched his mouth at my surprise, and he turned away to hide it. “You said you did not keep many decorations here,” he said quietly. _And you care about them, though I do not_.

He did not need to say it for me to hear it, and I fingered one of the ornaments as my leg forced me to take a seat. Maybe I would be mobile enough in the morning to hang them.

“Thank you, Holmes.”

Even retired, my friend’s keen gaze saw more than I wanted, and he easily noted the awkward position of my shoulder as well as the way I had been leaning heavily on my cane. I saw the conclusion flash in his gaze a moment later, and he frowned into the bag.

“I think you left some tobacco here last time,” I told him, readjusting into my chair, “if you brought a pipe. My appointment is not until nine tomorrow.”

He glanced between me and the decorations, but he disappeared into his room before I could ask what he was thinking, coming out a moment later with his favorite pipe. He joined me in front of the fire, and the night passed quickly, two old friends catching up on all that had happened since we last saw each other.

I did not find out what he had been thinking until the next morning, when I returned from my appointment to find the tree covered in ornaments and garland around the nearby window. Holmes denied knowledge when I tried to thank him, but he could not hide the twitched grin at my reaction.

He had not been a true scrooge in years.


	26. Explosive Denouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Michael JG Meathook: So many bombs, so little time.
> 
> Well, this has interesting timing considering the explosion in Tennessee and the threat of one in Cincinnati on Christmas morning

The loud buzzer nearly vibrated the air, signaling the end of play, and I hurried towards my position. I would only have one chance. Holmes relied on me being in earshot when the players came off the field.

“Why didja not throw it to me, ya dimwit!” One player smacked another on the back of the head, more to make the point than to injure.

“Sorry, Cap’n,” the younger player muttered. I kept moving.

“We call that kick a ‘bomb,’” another player said, tucking his helmet under one arm as he explained the concept to a new player.

“I have them,” another voice nearly whispered, and I moved away from the teaching moment as I tried to listen. “Where is it tonight?”

“We were right the first time,” was the answer. “In the sta—"

“You need to practice kicking more,” another boy said, loudly talking over the faint conversation behind a nearby stand. “The ball needs to go straight toward your target, otherwise the other team can catch it easily.”

“—at six,” the voice continued as the louder player moved off. “Disappear afterwards.”

Frustration coursed through me as the whispers moved away. Holmes had been trying to track this gang for days, and this had been our last chance to catch them exchanging goods. Holmes had refused to tell me what they were trading, but our client was a local inspector. We needed to catch this group before they could accomplish their goal, and I tried to follow the pair a short distance away from the field, hoping to catch something I could relay to Holmes. I did not want to return a failure.

I could glean nothing, however. The leader said something about it being the “last” meeting, which I already knew, before the pair split, and each quickly lost themselves in the crowd of players and spectators. Even if Holmes had not specifically told me to return to our rooms directly after the game, I would not have been able to follow either boy. I hoped his investigations had proven more fruitful than mine.

Holmes was pacing the sitting room when I arrived, but he quickly looked up as the door closed behind me. The clear expectation of intel showing in his gaze made my failing report that much harder, and he did not answer for a long moment when I had finished.

“You found _nothing?”_ he finally ground out.

I shook my head. “Just the time. I believe he said somewhere in the station, but where or which station was lost behind the other comment. I truly am sorry, Holmes.”

He scowled, turning away from me to resume pacing. _“Sorry_ does not give us that information,” he snapped. “How are we supposed to catch them if we do not know where they are?”

I said nothing. I had nothing _to_ say. I knew I had failed, and his response seemed to indicate that he had been relying wholly on me. I might have cost him this case.

“What can I do?” I finally asked after several minutes.

He waved me off, never looking up from his pacing as he refused to answer, and I sighed and moved away. I would give him a few minutes before beginning with the train station. That seemed most likely to me, and perhaps I would happen on something that would make up for my failure.

He finally spoke just before I decided to leave. “Go to this address,” he said, scribbling a familiar street name on a scrap of paper. “Tell Inspector Barkley to meet me behind the stands on the west side of the field at twenty to six, then station yourself on the northwest side of the field in a place where you can see the field as well as the outlying buildings. Take a dark lantern to use as a signal. If you see those two players, signal based on the compass points.”

I nodded. “Morse or numbers?”

“Morse,” was the firm answer as he gestured toward a lantern in the corner. “You need to be in place before the Inspector meets me.”

I hurried out the door, lantern in hand. The town was relatively small, and it did not take long for me to reach the address Holmes had given me—the local police station—and request the inspector.

“Doctor Watson!” I heard behind me as I finished talking to the secretary. I turned around to find Inspector Barkley just coming through the door. “News from Mr. Holmes?” he asked.

I nodded, moving closer so I could relay Holmes’ order quietly. If one of the other visitors nearby was part of the gang Holmes was tracking, it would not do for them to know we were planning a stakeout.

He agreed readily, and I hurried out the door as he ducked into his office. The rugby field was not far from the police station, appearing out of the darkness in only a few minutes, and I remembered seeing a large clump of bushes lining the northwest side of the field. I stationed myself behind them, feeling my way to a comfortable position instead of using the dark lantern. The sun had set shortly after the game, and the lack of moon tonight meant the field was far more shadowed than visible. I hoped I would be able to see any visitors. I could not fail Holmes twice.

The time passed slowly, minutes creeping by as I watched for movement. I had no idea what Holmes thought would happen, and times like this made me wish I could follow his deductions. Why were we watching a rugby field instead of the train station?

I would find out eventually, I supposed, and silence settled over the field. I saw no trace of movement, though I knew Holmes and the inspector were off to my right. We seemed to be the only ones in an empty stadium, and I soon began to wonder if Holmes had been wrong after all. Where was the gang?

Perhaps it was not yet six, I decided, though I did not dare use the lantern to check my watch. I continued waiting.

Movement caught my eye, and a deafening onslaught of sound reached my ears. A blindingly bright light lit the field as a tremendous force shoved me painfully, stealing my breath and knocking me off my feet to land on my bad shoulder. Pure agony shot through the old scar as I thumped limply onto the dirt. My ears rang loudly, and my chest ached as if someone had hit me, which I supposed was close enough to the truth.

An explosion, I vaguely realized. Someone had planted a bomb in the rugby field. I needed to check on Holmes and the inspector. How far from the blast had they been?

Pain paralyzed me, however, leaving me limp on the ground behind the obliterated bushes. I was vaguely aware of hurried footsteps, then voices, but they sounded distant, as if the speaker was calling from several hundred yards away. I paid them no heed, trying to catch my breath and move past the pain of landing heavily on that old injury.

The voices drew closer, now only yards away instead of several hundred, and pressure landed on my right shoulder, gently rolling me onto my back and making it easier to draw a full breath. The movement sent another stab of pain lancing through my left shoulder, however, only adding to my disorientation. I felt strangely disconnected from the world around me, and I tried to pull myself back just as I tried to open my eyes.

“Watson!” The voice carried faintly through the fog, vaguely familiar though the ringing in my ears made it difficult to understand. “Watson, answer me!”

The voice reminded me of someone, but my sluggish thoughts prevented me from immediately placing the speaker. Why was fear ringing through their words? Did they need help?

"Watson, say something!"

Holmes. The voice reminded me of Holmes’, and I fought to open my eyes, to move. Had Holmes been close to the explosion? Was he injured?

The haze over my thoughts began lifting, and I felt gentle hands pat me down for injury, gliding over facial scrapes and avoiding tender bruises. Voices floated around me, the words growing clearer as the ringing in my ears slowly faded.

"Get your hands off me!"

"Did you really think you would get away with that?"

"We weren't hurting nobody." That was one of the boys I had seen after the game.

"Then why is that man unresponsive?" the voice growled.

"Shouldn't a been hidin' in the bushes."

"Watson?"

Holmes' voice came over the sound of an open-handed slap, and my eyes finally obeyed my commands to open as a young man let out a howl. The inspector snarled something about the boy’s parents doing much worse, and Holmes came into shadowed view above me, relief in his gaze as I focused on him.

"Holmes." I still had not quite caught my breath, and the word was quiet, barely more than a whisper. Holmes obviously heard it anyway.

"Where are you injured?" he asked.

I shook my head, relieved that no dizziness accompanied the motion. The blast had stunned and temporarily deafened me, but cuts and bruises were the extent of my injuries. Already, the pain in my shoulder was lessening.

"It just stunned me," I answered, catching my breath as the pain in my shoulder faded, and I tried to sit up. "What exploded?"

He did not answer immediately, one hand holding me down as he continued scanning me. I pushed his hand away, quickly checking him for him injury in the faint light.

“I’m fine, Holmes. Seriously. It just knocked the wind out of me.”

He scowled, locating another lantern nearby and lighting it as well, and I tried again to sit up.

“Lay _down,_ Watson! You probably have a concussion.”

I shook my head again, using his distraction with the lantern to sit upright. “No dizziness, and my head doesn’t hurt,” I replied, trying to hide the pain still twinging my left shoulder. “Stop worrying.”

His scowl deepened, and he purposely sat between me and the inspector’s voice as he ran his finger gently over my scalp, checking for a knot. I waved him off again.

“I’m fine.”

“You are _not_ fine,” he nearly snapped. “You did not respond for over a minute past the blast, and explosions often cause concussions. Now hold still.”

His fingers ran over my scalp again, and I leaned away, only to smother a gasp when my shoulder protested the motion. His eyes immediately met mine.

“I was awake,” I finally admitted, “but I landed on my left shoulder. That combined with the shock is why I did not answer immediately. I am not injured.”

He continued staring at me, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as I checked my surroundings. Four young men, including the two I had seen at the game earlier, sat in the dirt thirty feet away from me. The cuffs on their wrists glinted in the light of several lanterns, and Inspector Barkley stood in front of them with another policeman. His right hand stayed near the weapon on his hip, and I noticed his gaze flicking between me and the boys in front of him. Even at that distance, I could see the tension seep from his shoulders when he noticed me sitting up.

On my other side, the explosion had lifted a large quantity of earth, and more lanterns shone in the distance, coming closer as word spread of the blast. The bomb had left a loose pile of dirt less than a hundred feet into the field, explaining why I had been knocked off my feet, and I wondered what the boys had been trying to accomplish. I would have expected more shrapnel for an explosion that size, and I counted myself lucky that there had not been. My hiding place had been close enough to the blast that almost any shrapnel would have been instantly fatal.

“Watson?” Holmes asked when I remained silent for too long. I turned my gaze back towards him, scanning him again for injury.

“How far away were you?” I asked quietly.

He waved me off. “Several hundred yards,” he answered. “I had expected the blast to be on the south side of the field if they acted tonight. A grievous error on my part.” He paused, that keen gaze scanning me again. “You are alright?”

I nodded, ignoring another strong twinge in my shoulder. “Why did they blow up the field?”

“Jewels,” he answered. “There was a jewel heist while the stadium was under construction, and one of the boys acquired a rudimentary metal detector from a family member. They simply did not have enough time to dig without getting caught. Inspector Barkley sent the second responding officer to retrieve the shovels in the maintenance closet.”

I glanced between him and the pile of dirt on the field. “They detonated an _explosive_ to reach stolen jewels?”

Amusement mixed with the concern still in his gaze. “They are young,” he replied simply, for once deciding not to insult someone’s intelligence in their hearing. We both knew the boys could not have thought through their plan very well. Even if the blast was unlikely to damage their target, this town was not large. They would not have had time to dig up the jewels and run before someone investigated the explosion.

I smirked at the understatement as more officers reached the scene, and Inspector Barkley quickly turned the boys over to another policeman’s custody and hurried closer.

“Alright then, Doctor?” he asked when he reached us.

I nodded firmly, surreptitiously using my right hand to hold my left arm still. I had landed hard, and the bruise beginning to form in the joint was loudly making itself known.

Holmes huffed, irritation killing the amusement that had been there, and I knew he had noticed how much my shoulder was bothering me.

“Bruised or broken?” he asked.

I scowled at him but answered. “Bruised,” I replied shortly, then hesitated as the scar spasmed, and he raised an eyebrow at me. “I should probably fashion a sling from something,” I admitted quietly.

The worry in Holmes’ eyes grew more apparent. “Are you sure it is merely bruised?”

“Yes,” I answered. “I landed hard, but not that hard.”

He studied me for a moment but nodded, accepting that as he looked at the inspector. “Have you a length of cloth we can use? We can return it once we reach our rooms.”

Inspector Barkley nodded immediately. “The superintendent always carries a scarf for just this reason. I’ll be right back.”

He hurried toward the other officers surveying the area, pointedly ignoring the four young men still sitting in the dirt, and I saw him single out an older man standing off to one side. Superintendent stripes on the man’s sleeve showed why he was not actively helping, and he immediately focused his attention on the inspector.

“Watson?”

I looked back at Holmes, finding him frowning at the way I reflexively clutched my left arm during a spasm, and I forced myself to relax my grip.

“I landed directly on it,” I answered his wordless question. “It is going to be sore for a while.”

He continued frowning, but the inspector returned a moment later, a long scarf in hand. Holmes helped me wrap it around my arm to tie behind my neck, and he pulled me to my feet when he had finished.

“Have they started digging yet?” I asked when I saw how many policemen swarmed the explosion site.

Inspector Barkley shook his head. “Only just. They were searching for evidence of the explosives first.”

Holmes dug a roll of papers out of an inner jacket pocket. “That is what I have found of their movements. They met here two or three times a week to search with the metal detector. The device they have is faulty, and they required several passes to determine the jewel’s location, which is why they took so long to find the exact spot. Without time to dig, one boy volunteered supplies from his grandfather’s general store. The one thing I could not find was what started them on this track.”

“One of those newspapers we found discussed the jewel heist,” I remembered. “It happened about the time their parents were their age. Perhaps it came up at supper and the boys decided to find the jewels.”

“I remember seeing that in the paper,” Inspector Barkley replied, noting the detail in his book. “The anniversary was just before someone first noticed the lights out here.”

I half-expected Holmes to chide me for theorizing without adequate data, but he merely nodded. “It is possible.”

We reached the edge of the forming hole before Holmes could say more, and I peered through the lamplight. Several shovels had quickly cleared the loosened dirt, and a young constable cried out as we reached the edge.

“Here!”

Two others joined him, and a large, wooden chest promptly appeared under their shovels. They lifted the chest among them and slid it along the turf at the edge of the hole.

“Well done, boys.” The superintendent joined us in front of the chest. He was old enough to remember the jewel’s theft, and I wondered if he had tried to solve the case himself a few times over the years. “Shall we—"

 _“We_ found them!”

The voice came from behind us, and I turned to see several officers escorting the boys to a waiting wagon. The sergeant let out a laugh more angry than amused. “You will not even get the offered reward for finding them,” he sneered, glancing at me as he passed, and I recognized Sergeant Glynn from earlier in the week. _“That_ will go towards doctor fees and rebuilding the stadium you blew up!”

“Doctor’s fees?!”

“You’re lucky you don’t have a murder charge, too,” another snarled. “Shut your mouth.”

Holmes’ face lost color as they moved out of earshot, and I readjusted, purposely bumping his arm as I did so.

“I’m _fine,”_ I muttered.

He nodded, and I turned back to the wooden chest, though I did notice he stayed next to me.

Inspector Barkley had knelt in front of the lock, and he used a small piece of metal to clean out the dirt before pulling a key from his pocket.

“Where did you get that?” the superintendent asked.

The inspector kept his gaze on the slightly rusted lock. “My grandfather found it on one of his walks,” he answered. “The jewel heist was in the papers the next morning.”

I smothered a smirk. That was true enough, I supposed, though it conveniently left out the fact that he had been told _where_ and _when_ to find it at the time. The inspector’s grandfather had not been part of the group that stole the jewels, but he had been the one they had entrusted with the key after they hid the chest, expecting to return for it after the publicity died. As the inspector’s grandfather and the original thieves were all dead, however, there was no use in slandering the name with the full history. The three of us had agreed that returning the jewels to their place was good enough.

Decades of moisture and grit had stiffened the lock, but the key turned slowly, and Inspector Barkley opened the chest to reveal a pile of rubies, emeralds, diamonds, and gold. The superintendent let out a low whistle.

“Mr. Jameson is not going to believe this,” he said, referring to the local jeweler from whom the small fortune had been stolen so many years ago.

Something lit Holmes’ gaze, and he leaned down, lifting a particularly large ruby to catch the lamplight. “Do you remember the scandal surrounding Sir Goddard’s wife?”

The seemingly irrelevant question caught me off guard, but for once, I caught his line of reasoning.

 _“That_ is the ruby she was accused of giving to the Earl?”

He nodded sharply. “She decided to take the scandal herself rather than pass it onto the small jeweler she had preferred all her life. A search in birth records would likely reveal a family connection.”

I stared at the large ruby sparkling in the light. The papers had discussed the scandal for _weeks_ , most calling for Sir Goddard to shun her for adultery. The couple had withstood the storm together, and only now did I understand why.

The view of the public did not matter when each of them knew the truth.

Holmes replaced the ruby and shut the chest with a faint click, handing both chest and key to the superintendent.

“You would be entitled to the reward money,” the superintendent offered, tucking the chest under one arm as he pocketed the key.

Holmes shook his head. “We established case fees when this began. The reward money was not part of that.”

“Use it to repair the rugby field,” I added with a glance at the large hole. “The other team members should not have to pay for those four boys’ actions.”

The superintendent nodded, thanking us before leaving with the chest—probably to lock it in a safe until it could be returned to its owner.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Inspector Barkley said, shaking our hands. “I will wire your fees when the telegraph office opens in the morning.”

We said our goodbyes, and the inspector moved to begin coordinating the cleanup as Holmes turned to me.

“Stop staring,” I grumbled, turning to lead the way back to our rooms as he scanned me. I hoped he could not tell how badly the joint was spasming, but I knew the hope was probably unfounded. Holmes was far too observant.

He huffed, easily catching up and taking my arm in his. I tried not to lean on him as we slowly walked, but I had no choice when a particularly painful spasm stole my breath and narrowed my awareness to my shoulder. I nearly sighed in relief as the door closed behind us.

He refrained from commenting as I gingerly exchanged the borrowed scarf for a sling in my bag, but I did wonder why he disappeared for so long when I asked him to return it.

I found out when my account balance grew dramatically within a few days of returning to London. Apparently, he had decided that not _all_ the reward money should go to fixing the stadium damage. He refused to acknowledge it when I brought it up, however, and I set the money aside. A sum that large could become very useful in a bind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were four definitions of "bomb" here. Did you catch them all?
> 
> 1) An explosive weapon detonated by impact, proximity to an object, a timing mechanism, or other means.  
> 2) Slang. A dismal failure; a fiasco.  
> 3) Rugby: A kick straight up with a long hang time to allow the kicking team to receive  
> 4) A great noise; a hollow sound.


	27. Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Ennui Enigma: Holmes investigates a burglary at the Diogenes Club (in silence)

Mycroft sighed, trying not to stare at the figure slouched in the soft chair. The other men in the room had not yet noticed the problem, as one would have fainted while another would have silently left, and he wondered how best to take care of this.

Sherlock would just have to stay silent, he decided. They could hardly have a crowd of Yarders crawling through the club, and the private investigators always did better if someone provided several leads at the outset. A gesture to one of the attendants brought a telegram form, and a minute later, the same attendant took the form to send. His brother would be here shortly.

Sherlock arrived in a whirlwind of movement, the doctor close behind, and Mycroft met them at the door, halting the coming question with a gesture.

_The rule of silence is still in effect._

His brother paused mid-step, amusement mixing with irritation in his gaze.

_Then why did you send for me?_

A wave led him and the doctor further into the room, and Sherlock's interest became obvious when he realized the man asleep in front of the fire was not actually asleep. Sleeping men still breathe, after all.

His brother's hand twitched, and Mycroft immediately recognized one of their childhood codes. 

_The facts?_

_Found thirty minutes ago,_ Mycroft answered. _Was alive less than two hours ago. I was in my chair and heard nothing._

_Any visitors?_

_None. Only members._

_Recent new members?_

_Two._ He passed a scrap of paper containing both names, adding most of what he had relayed to Sherlock for the doctor's benefit, and Doctor Watson smiled faintly when he saw the notes.

_Thank you,_ he said with a simpler variation of the code they had been using, reading to make sure he had not missed something.

Sherlock smirked, easily spotting Mycroft's surprise and deducing what had transpired while he had been examining the floor. _This is not the first time silence was required._

The doctor’s gaze was still on the sheet of paper, and Mycroft took advantage of the other man’s distraction to convey irritation to Sherlock. His brother simply rolled his eyes.

_I know you better than that._

Mycroft glanced away to hide his amusement. Sherlock was right; Mycroft was not surprised Sherlock had taught the doctor their old code. He had long known he had two younger brothers instead of one.

Sherlock began inspecting the body, and he waved the doctor over a moment later, pointing to a spot on the man's neck.

_Poison?_

His friend thought for a second then nodded, looking closely at the man's face and checking his eyes and gums before scribbling something in the journal he drew from a pocket.

_Have either of those men been to South or Central America?_ Sherlock asked after reading the note.

_No, but Rodriguez just returned from a several-month stay in Honduras,_ Mycroft replied.

The doctor nodded sharply, scribbling something else when an attempt at using the code produced a confused expression.

_It looks like a paralytic found in the bark of several Central American plants,_ Sherlock said _. He could easily have acquired some from one of the tribes native to the region._

_How does it work?_ They discussed quickly back and forth.

_The paralytic is a plant extract the natives use to kill prey,_ Sherlock answered, skimming the notes Doctor Watson continued writing. _The murderer simply put a drop on a knife and nicked the victim’s neck. Shallow enough he might not have felt it, the victim would have stopped breathing in minutes._

_Is this available here?_ was Mycroft’s next question.

The doctor shook his head sharply. _Heard about it in war,_ he said, his simpler version of the code choppy but understandable. _Only found in Americas south of Mexico. No antidote but support. False breathing. Heart unaffected by poison._

_Has anyone else been to the Americas?_ Sherlock asked.

_Unknown,_ Mycroft answered immediately. _Rodriguez received his first warning announcing his travel plans._

Amusement twitched the doctor’s mustache, but he successfully smothered the smile.

_No arguments,_ he acknowledged. _Bad blood? Change in dynamic? Travel plans do not provide motive._

Catching the question despite examining the man’s clothing, Sherlock waved him off and scribbled in the notebook, and his friend nodded understanding. The man’s position gave motive enough; this was an assassination, not a murder.

Sherlock’s attention focused on the man’s jacket, and he glanced up at Mycroft.

_What might he carry with him that would be worth stealing?_

Mycroft frowned. The man’s position involved highly classified information, and most would consider hidden in a pocket to be more secure than locked in a safe. He could have been carrying any number of things.

Sherlock looked closer. _He had a notebook as well as something small and metallic, of a size similar to a cigarette case. The object either was or concealed something weighty, though it is impossible to determine what it contained. The murderer would have had to wait for the poison to take effect before committing the theft. He may have stayed in the room, but it is equally possible he left and returned. Watson, how long from injury until the paralytic takes effect?_

_Probably fifteen to twenty minutes,_ he answered, glancing once more at the small place on the man’s neck. _No more than thirty minutes._

Sherlock nodded, as if he had expected that. _You would want to check your logs, of course, but he probably stayed in the room, watching for his opportunity._

_Assassination or burglary primary?_ Mycroft asked.

Sherlock hesitated but shook his head. _Difficult to tell without knowing exactly what was stolen._

Mycroft made no answer, and Sherlock examined a couple more areas before deciding he had found all there was.

_Did you want me for the entire case or just for leads?_ Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, glancing at the doctor’s journal page before looking at Mycroft for an answer.

_Primarily leads,_ he replied. _Could that poison have been shipped here?_

Sherlock thought for a moment then turned to his friend, who shook his head. _Complicated to make. Other ingredients needed. Make there. Bring back. Not mail._

A faint gasp sounded behind them, and one of the other men got up and left. Sherlock twitched a grin and held out his hand, and Mycroft smothered his amusement when the doctor rolled his eyes and placed a sovereign in Sherlock’s palm.

_When?_

The doctor tried to kill a grin, but it was Sherlock that answered.

_Your club came up in conversation last week,_ he answered simply _, and he thought the other members would be more observant_.

Another gasp cut off Mycroft’s reply, and the other man sank limply back into his chair. Mycroft sighed, but the doctor’s grin finally escaped as he nudged Sherlock and held out a hand. The sovereign disappeared into its original pocket as Sherlock affected a scowl, and Mycroft suddenly found smothering his amusement more difficult.

_He thought they would ignore or leave the room,_ the doctor said before Mycroft could ask.

Sherlock huffed but made no reply, turning the topic back to the body in front of them.

_Do you need me for anything else?_

Mycroft shook his head. _His people will want to track the murderer themselves rather than going through the Yard, and it will be easier to lessen publicity without a large investigation. I will contact you if they decide they need more than what you have provided._

Sherlock nodded, glancing at the doctor once more before turning to the door, and his friend followed after nodding a silent farewell of his own. Mycroft flagged down another attendant. They still needed to remove the body from the fireplace seat, and somebody would need to begin interviewing the men that had traveled recently.

Thankfully, that was hardly his job. He notified the relevant contacts and resumed his chair. He had another two hours left in the evening, and there was no reason to leave now. The private inspectors knew to stay quiet.


	28. Common Scents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Book girl fan: A stroll by the river

“Can you not lay off the chemicals for _one_ day?”

He did not even look up, ignoring my growling tone. “I need to isolate this, Watson.”

The stench drifted toward me again, and I fought the urge to cough. “No, you _want_ to isolate it. The flat has smelled like moldy fish and rotting flesh for days, Holmes, and it’s only getting stronger. Find something else to do.”

“Isolating this reagent will confirm Grant’s part in that case last week.”

“Grant is captured and awaiting trial,” I nearly snapped, “and Lestrade specifically mentioned the abundance of evidence. You do not need that experiment. Find a different one. Please.”

His focus remained on the beaker in his hand, and I forced myself to stop talking. Holmes had been filling the flat with noxious fumes for nearly a week, now, and I was growing dangerously close to truly angry with him. The smell of rotten, moldy fish was annoying similar to some of my memories, and it was beginning to give me a headache. It had also successfully stolen my appetite, though that was not much of a problem yet. Mrs. Hudson had fled the flat to spend the day with her sister, and I was close to leaving as well just so I could go sixty seconds without suppressing the urge to cough—or retch. I could not even focus on the book I had in my lap.

He mixed the contents of one beaker with another, producing a small puff of smoke whose scent was far too close to a very specific battle, and I pulled myself to my feet. I was done. He could have the flat for the day, and if he still had not finished by suppertime, I would pack a small valise and find somewhere else to sleep tonight.

Shoving three novels, some money, and my checkbook into a bag, I hurried out the door, breathing deeply as I reached the street. How Holmes could tolerate it, I had no idea, but given that he had been bending over the source for hours at a time, perhaps he no longer noticed the smell. My patience had grown thin after days of arguing with him to try a different experiment, however. I could not bring myself to remain in the flat another hour, despite that I usually preferred to stay nearby when he was fighting off a Black Mood, and I simply hoped the experiment would keep him out of the Moroccan case on the mantel. Much longer in that room threatened to send me either into a memory or rushing for the washroom.

Sunlight effortlessly pierced the thin fog, and my headache gradually began to ease in the cleaner air. I walked slowly, enjoying the sunshine as I wandered toward the river. It had been a while since I had last spent an afternoon reading on the bench I preferred near the water, and as I had no interest in walking very far, my old spot seemed like a fine place to spend the time. Even the stronger than normal smell of the river was better than the ghastly odor permeating the flat, and it was far less likely to have disorienting side effects.

A young couple stood just as I drew close to the bench I preferred, and I took advantage of their leaving to claim the bench for myself. I liked this spot for the view, but I had also found a way to prop either my leg or my shoulder, provided I had the bench to myself. With several other benches in the area, I did not feel bad about claiming this one, and I relaxed almost immediately, quickly losing myself in the first of my books.

Footsteps broke my concentration several hours later, and a familiar shadow landed on the words of my third novel. I pulled my focus from the pages to find Holmes standing in front of the bench, staring at me, and only then did I realize that the sun hung low on the horizon. I had read straight through suppertime.

“Are you coming home?” he asked, the question strangely quiet.

I raised an eyebrow, wondering what had drawn him away from the chemistry table. He had refused to leave the room for the last several days, though I had offered to go wherever he wanted. Why had he come to the river now?

“Eventually,” I answered, seeing no reason to argue with him about his experiment. “Why?”

He shifted his feet, and one hand started twitching against his sleeve as he searched for words. My confusion only grew. Something had obviously made him nervous, but I had no idea what. He should be used to me giving him the flat for the day during his more malodorous experiments; I was sure some of them were expressly _to_ get me out of the flat for a few hours.

“Why are you reading by streetlamp?” he finally asked.

I reflexively glanced at the light at the other end of my bench. The sun was not yet low enough to prevent me from reading, but I had apparently not noticed the lamplighter come through. The lamp shone dimly in the fading sun, casting a yellow glow over my bench.

“I was reading by sunlight,” I answered. “My bench just happens to have a lamp next to it.”

His gaze flicked to the ground in front of me.

“Did you remember to eat today?”

I quirked a grin, deciding not to mention how little interest I still had in food. “I usually have to ask _you_ that.”

A smile twitched his mouth, but he said nothing, waiting for me to answer.

“What are you doing here?” I asked instead. “I did not expect you to leave your experiment.”

He glanced toward where my bag sat next to me, and I looked to see my checkbook sticking out. I shoved it out of sight to avoid making myself a target.

“I thought you would return before dark,” he answered simply. Faint worry leaked into the words as he repeated himself, “Did you remember to eat today?”

I scowled at him. “No,” I finally replied when I saw he would not let me ignore the question. “I read through suppertime, as I know you can see.” I had not gotten up since opening my first book several hours ago, and I had not been hungry when I left the flat. I was not truly hungry now, though that might change if I smelled food.

“And Mrs. Hudson left before breakfast,” he acknowledged as the smell lingering in our rooms came to mind. I pushed away an image of what _else_ could cause that smell as he continued, “She returned shortly after you left but spent less than five minutes in the flat.”

I nodded. “I told her to go to her sister’s yesterday. She probably decided to spend the night there.” I could hardly blame her. After so many hours of relatively clean air, I was not even sure I wanted to return long enough to pack a bag before finding another place to stay tonight.

“How long were you planning on staying here?” he asked as I marked my place and turned on the bench. He took a seat next to me.

I shrugged. “I guess until it grew too dark to see the words. I originally planned to leave a couple of hours ago, though I had not decided where I would go next. That motel near the Diogenes has decent rates in a safe enough area.”

Holmes seemed to stiffen, and I glanced up from sliding the books back into my bag to frown at him.

“What has you so tense? This is hardly the first time I decided I had had enough of one of your experiments.”

He waved me off, ignoring my question with one of his own.

“Supper at Simpson’s?”

I hesitated but finally shook my head. “The motel’s rates are decent, not cheap.” The motel would also offer something in the way of supper, should I decide I was hungry.

He said nothing for a long moment, and I stood, grabbing my bag as he moved to stand next to me.

“How long are you going to stay at the motel?” he asked before I could voice my own question again.

I huffed, wondering what about that so bothered him. “Until your experiment is done. I get to smell rotting flesh every time I rem—every time I do an autopsy. I have no wish to smell it in the sitting room.” I started walking, and he kept pace with me as I berated myself for nearly blurting the main reason I had left the flat. I could only hope he would not comment.

“Good.” The response surprised me, and I glanced up to find him studying me. “Then we can go to Simpson’s tonight,” he continued. “I opened a window before I left.”

I hesitated, unsure I wanted to read between the lines on something like this. “Your experiment is done? Completely?”

He nodded. “I doubt Mrs. Hudson will return before morning, though, if the way she slammed the door earlier is any indication.”

I smothered a chuckle. “Alright, then. Simpson’s it is.”

Tension immediately fell from his shoulders, and I asked again what was bothering him. He still refused to answer me, however, taking my arm in his when I stumbled and leading me down a riverfront shortcut to Simpson’s. He never would tell me what had bothered him so badly, and I eventually quit asking.

He also refused to tell me why the experiment that had captivated him for a week was in the trash, but I could not deny I was grateful. I did not like London motels any more than he did.


	29. Scraps of Insight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From mrspencil: a newfangled contraption causes frustration

Holmes’ growl of frustration nearly filled the sitting room, and the door clicked shut behind me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He started, apparently not hearing me enter, and I moved to stand behind where he sat at his desk. “Is that a typewriter?”

He glanced up at me, hope sparking in his gaze. “Have you used one?”

I shook my head. “I have watched others use them, though. What are you trying to accomplish?”

He scowled at the machine. “I submitted a monograph to publish today, and they wanted to know if I could type future ones. They let me borrow a typewriter when I said I had never tried, but they were frustratingly vague on how it is used.”

I studied what he had so far, comparing it to the memory of one I had seen on a professor’s desk in medical school. The device he had was a typical downstroke typewriter, as the upstroke versions were still far too new, and a quick glance confirmed that he had everything set up correctly. I leaned against the desk as I looked back at him.

“Everything looks as it should,” I told him. “What is the problem?”

“What do you mean ‘it looks as it should?’” he burst out, gesturing angrily at the device. “How am I supposed to know what I am typing?”

I tried not to grin. “You don’t,” I answered. “The arms connected to each key strike the paper inside the box. This model spaces everything for you, but there is not yet a way to see what you type as you type it. You have to remove the paper when you are done.”

He looked at me, then at the box-like typewriter sitting on the desk. “That is a _horrible_ design!”

I laughed. “The upstroke ones only hit the market a few years ago and are still relatively expensive. Here.”

I exchanged the nice paper he had loaded into the machine with a few scraps from my desk and slowly tapped out a few words. Pausing long enough to ensure I did not smear the ink, I removed the paper to reveal what I had typed.

“pu _b_ l ishers ar _e_ dem _an_ ding,” it read, and he quirked a grin.

I made no effort to hide a chuckle. “They are imperfect, as you can tell, and they require quite a bit of practice. I would recommend several hours with scraps before you feed your manuscript sheets into it.”

His amusement at my attempt still twitching his mouth, he nodded and fed another, longer scrap into the machine, and I settled into my chair with a book as he began to type. I tried not to make it obvious that I paid more attention to him than I did the words on the page, but only his own distraction kept him from noticing me. He was worth watching. My friend was so accustomed to finding things easy that the few challenges he faced either fascinated or frustrated him, and this obviously fell into the latter category. He was too much of a perfectionist to feel otherwise. After spending several minutes tapping away on the keys and occasionally scowling at the device, he would pull the paper out and inevitably find one or more imperfections. The imperfections irritated him, and by the fourth try, he had taken to throwing the used scraps on the floor. I eventually had to rescue one when it landed too close to the fire, and minutes passed as more and more papers littered the floor behind him.

“No luck?” I asked two hours later, when he crumpled one particularly roughly.

He growled. “This confounded contraption refuses to work! I thought you said it spaced the words automatically?”

My grin widened a bit. “It does, but it will never be spaced the same way that a handwritten sentence will. The purpose of the typewriter is to make all the letters look alike across documents rather than having to decipher each individual’s variation of script. Each successive model is better, but we are many years away from having a device that works perfectly.”

He typed out another few words, only to throw that paper to the floor as well, growing more frustrated by the minute. Two more crumpled scraps later, he angrily pushed himself away from the desk and disappeared into his bedroom.

He reentered the sitting room a moment later, box in hand, and the typewriter quickly disappeared. He brushed out the door with a huff of frustration, obviously deciding to tell the publisher that they would have to make do with his handwriting, and I waited for the front door to slam behind him before I laughed. I could not blame them for trying, considering Holmes’ handwriting varied from hurried to atrocious, but I also could not say I was surprised. Holmes did not have the patience to practice something that so irritated him—especially when the publisher had phrased it as a request instead of a requirement.

I set my book on a table and started gathering the papers he had scattered, intending to set them aside only long enough to make sure he did not want to keep them before we used them as fire starters, but a piece of text on one caught my eye. My curiosity got the better of me, and I opened it.

“bozwelk. wastin.” I hesitated, staring at the familiar words. Even with the mistakes, I knew what he had been trying to type, and I opened another.

“tge qu icj br _ow_ n fox ju mpe d ovet tge la zy rive r. mrz hisdon.”

“watxin. londin.”

“sher lick holms. th e qy ick _bro_ en fo xjunp _ed_ ocerth e lazt r _i_ ver.”

“bozwell. watsin.”

“watson. mrz. hudson. sherlick holmes. mycroft.”

My smile grew wider with each one. I knew he valued my friendship just as I did his, but he so deftly hid his thoughts that even I could rarely guess his true feelings. He had obviously been typing whatever came to mind, and that he had spent the last two hours alternating between a sentence that used the entire alphabet and those four names—of which mine was the most common by far—conveyed much more than I had ever thought to see.

“ba ker strret. 221”

“watson. sherlick holmes. lindon.”

There had been a time when I believed he only kept me around for convenience, when I had thought that the regard I held for him was completely unreciprocated, and while more recent years had finally shown me that such an idea was probably inaccurate, I had never thought to see proof of the value he placed on our friendship. I considered him my brother and had for years, and the frequency with which my name appeared on those scraps showed I was much more than just a convenient flatmate and business partner. I opened paper after paper, finding different variations of the same message.

_Cherished,_ they said with different letters and misspelled words. _Important. Valued._

I slowly worked my way across the room, finding some scraps easier to read than others but all worth the time.

“the qiick brown f _o_ x jumped over the la zy _riv_ er.”

“watson. myc roft.”

“mrs. hudsom.”

“sherlick holmes.”

“bozwell. watson.”

Careful to recrumple each one after I read it, I finally reached the area where most of the last ones had landed, and the spelling improved as I went, though the contents hardly varied. Each one contained the same message, the same words time after time.

Except one.

“bos well. watson. brother.”

The basket hit the ground as I stared at the scrap of paper, unable to believe what I was seeing. I would never have expected _him_ to return such a sentiment. At best, I had hoped for what the other notes had conveyed—valued friend—and I read it again, then again, trying to decipher what it _really_ said. There was no way that meant what I thought it did, what I hoped it did. I had long ago reconciled myself to the knowledge that the honorary title I had granted him long ago would never be returned.

The evidence stared at me no matter how many times I reread it, however. _Brother._

The slamming of the door abruptly broke into my thoughts, and I jerked out of my stunned staring as he mounted the stairs, quickly clearing the rest of the notes and double checking that all in the basket had been recrumpled. By the time he reached the sitting room, the basket sat next to his desk chair, and I had returned to my book. He promptly dumped the crumpled scraps into the fire, but he never noticed that one scrap was missing.

I had shoved it into my journal as I took a seat. He did not need to know when I eventually moved that scrap to my wallet.


	30. Billiards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Domina Temporis: Watson invites Holmes to his club to meet his friends. What happens next?

“Of course you can come. I simply did not expect you to want to.”

He stared at me, uncertainty showing in that grey gaze, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“I have had a club membership since the first year we shared rooms,” I told him, “and never once have you shown any interest in coming with me. Why should I expect you to now?”

He huffed, the uncertainty fading behind amusement as he conceded the point. He had never given any indication that he wanted to go to my club with me, and I had given up inviting him years ago. His hesitant question had caught me completely by surprise, but I had no reason to deny it. My only reason for going today was to play a game of pocket billiards with Reinald. I had been planning to stay for supper when we finished, as I expected the game to end after the time Mrs. Hudson usually brought our food to the sitting room, but Holmes would probably suggest Simpson’s instead.

“What made you decide to come?” I asked as we walked down the street. I swung my jacket over my shoulder to keep my hands free. The sun would be setting soon, and the temperature dropped quickly when it did. Both of us would want another layer by the time we turned our steps towards home.

He shrugged, staring at a passing cab and refusing to look at me. “You know I have had very few cases of late,” he answered simply, “and you seem to enjoy the afternoons you spend at your club.”

I smothered a smile. He must be extremely bored, to decide that an afternoon spent in the company of a room full of strangers was better than the silence of our empty rooms, and a passing thought wondered if that was his only reason.

He would never admit another even if I asked, however, and I did not try, turning the conversation to deducing passersby on the short walk to my club.

“Doctor Watson,” the doorman greeted me as we drew close. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I haven’t been in London for a while,” I answered, purposely omitting where I had been. “It is good to be back, though. Is Reinald here, yet?”

The man shook his head, shrugging slightly as Holmes followed me inside.

“Couldn’t tell you,” he replied. “I don’t know a Reinald.”

He resumed his place by the door, and I led Holmes toward the billiard tables in the back.

“Does he not know everyone that comes here?” Holmes asked.

“Eventually, but Reinald recently moved to London.” I started setting up a game at an unoccupied table. “You can play with us if you like.”

He indicated a negative. “You play. I believe I will wander the room a bit.”

He disappeared into the shadows before I could reply, and I turned back towards the table, curious as to why he was acting so strangely. He hated mingling more than he hated the company of strangers, and a thought crossed my mind wondering if he had a case of some sort. It was not often that he worked a case without me, but some cases had required my ignorance to grant him access somewhere. I hoped he would give me the details later. I had no idea what about my club could constitute a case for him, having chosen this one years ago partly because it was so quiet, but I would be interested in hearing about it.

Reinald still had not arrived by the time I finished setting up, and I started a solitary game to practice while I waited. Quite some time had passed since I had last played, and I welcomed the chance to recall the technique—especially when a stray shot sent one ball bouncing straight to the floor. Laughing slightly at the mistake, I tried again, and the ball went into its pocket.

I got better over time, and within a few minutes, I was pulling off my normal trick shots simply for the fun of it. Despite moving deliberately slowly, the final ball eventually tipped into the corner pocket, and I glanced at my watch as I started setting up for a new game. He was nearly thirty minutes late. Something must have come up since our chance meeting in the tobacco shop the other day, and he had not been able to contact me.

I would give him a few more minutes, I decided, though I rather wished Holmes had stayed nearby so I could teach him how to play. Billiards was alright when I had an opponent, but I had never cared for the solitary games, and I had always thought Holmes would enjoy the strategy behind some of the trick shots.

I saw no sign of my friend, however, and I eventually put the balls and cue away with a sigh. There was not much use in claiming a table with no opponent.

Slowly moving away from the table, I scanned the mingling crowd for something to do. I preferred not to leave Holmes here alone, but I had no real interest in any of the card games, and I knew nobody else here. I finally made my way toward the counter. A drink would kill some time until I could spot Holmes, and if he had not shown up by the time I finished, I would leave a message with the bartender and return to the flat. The club would not make him leave just because I had, and if something had caught his attention, I would rather he stay. Almost anything was better than the Black Moods that frequently plagued him between cases.

“Watson, move!”

The warning sounded when I was halfway across the room, and I barely registered Holmes’ voice as I reflexively jumped to the side. Somebody plowed into me midair, knocking me roughly to the floor as something metallic hit the ground with a faint ping, and the other man’s momentum rolled us into an alcove beneath a nearby table. A moment later, I found myself face down, pinned beneath Holmes as gunshots volleyed back and forth above our heads.

“Holmes, what’s going on?” His weight firmly prevented me from moving, and my leg painfully protested both the tumble and my position. I fought to get free, barely registering the yelling voices of several Yarders as I tried to halt the spasm.

He readjusted, letting me move my leg while still preventing me from throwing him off, and only after the pain eased did I realize he stayed between me and the chaos.

“Hold still!” he snapped when I tried to switch places. “You are the target, not me. Let the Yard subdue him.”

“Subdue _who?_ Is this why you wanted to join me today? You used me as _bait?!”_

He shook his head, his chin bumping my shoulder as he did so. “Reinald has been kidnapping and killing people all along his route from Northern Scotland,” he answered, lowering his voice as the chaos died, “primarily people who knew him at some point. You met him in medical school?”

“Yes.” I moved slightly as my shoulder protested my cramped position. “We shared classes the first year.”

“He suggested a game,” Holmes continued, “because to reach the tables, you have to pass this shadowed door. We arrived minutes before him, and he has been waiting for you to give up on your meeting ever since.”

The gunshots and screaming finally silenced, and Holmes’ weight vanished, light now filtering beneath the table as he moved to stand. I followed slowly, and he gave me a hand up, steadying me when I stumbled.

“Alright?” he asked, scanning me to make sure his tackle had not injured me.

I nodded. After such a tumble, my leg was going to protest for a while, but it was nothing new. I would rather take a hard fall than be hit by the sharp dart I spotted on the ground.

“What did he throw?” I asked as the twinge in my leg eased. The dart lay inches from my foot, and I leaned over slightly to look at it.

“Do not touch it,” he warned. “One of his victims died from the dart itself.”

I waved him off, staring at the glistening drop on the tip. “Just looking. He obviously dipped it in something.”

“A concentrated poison,” Holmes answered, “likely using apricots.” His hand landed on my shoulder, gently pulling me away from the dart. “The only classes he took were chemistry and botany.”

“Apricots?” I repeated. What would be the point of that? Apricot kernels were full of cyanide, and concentrated amounts would easily kill the victim. “I thought you said he kidnapped them first?”

“Usually,” he agreed, but he refused to say any more. “Come.”

Holmes led me toward the group of Yarders near the counter, and Lestrade looked up from speaking with one of the constables.

“Unhurt?” he asked, probably noting the limp I could not quite hide.

“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “You caught him?”

He nodded sharply, gesturing toward where three officers forcefully walked a familiar figure out the door. “He put up a fight, though,” Lestrade added. “I’ll give him that. You said he’s the one responsible for the rash of murders between here and Aberdeen?”

My leg twinged again, and Holmes took my arm when I tried to lean against the counter. “He is,” he confirmed, gesturing toward the shadowed alcove. “The dart he used this time is on the floor back there, but be careful not to touch it with skin. He seemed to rotate among three or four different poisons, and that small piece of metal could contain any one of them.”

Lestrade scowled. “We’ll be careful,” he promised, signaling another policeman closer, and Holmes and I walked toward the door as Lestrade began explaining about the dart.

“Why are you limping?” he asked once we were clear of the building.

I watched my feet, trying not to lean on him and wishing I had my cane. “A bullet found my leg many years ago,” I replied facetiously. “I thought you knew that.”

“You were not limping earlier,” he replied, probably frowning at me though I did not look up to confirm that, “and the temperature has not dropped enough to affect you.”

I waved him off. “It will pass.”

Silence answered me for a moment, and when he did reply, faint distress leaked into the quiet words. “Did I hurt you?”

“I’m fine, Holmes,” I said firmly. “I would rather a hard fall than be hit with that dart.”

He said nothing, studying me in the fading sunlight, and I pointedly squeezed his arm. “Seriously. I’m fine. My leg always protests hitting the ground. It will pass in a couple of hours.”

He huffed at me, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “stubborn” as he slowed his pace even further.

“How long have you been tracking Reinald?” I asked, hoping to draw his attention from my uneven gait.

“About three days.”

I glanced up. The chance meeting at the shop had been three days ago, and he nodded at my silent question. “The kidnappings and subsequent murders have been in the papers for weeks, but I did not begin tracking him until you mentioned going to your club today. As it was obvious he was traveling toward London, the local constabularies had been including me in any new information, and all of his victims knew him. You told me you were meeting an old friend.”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I had no idea if my suspicions were correct until I saw him station himself in the shadows, and by then, I could not warn you without giving away my presence.”

And giving away his presence would have either inspired Reinald to act sooner or scared him away completely. Attacking sooner could have put me in danger if Holmes could not react quickly enough, and Holmes would have wanted to capture Reinald before the man left London. At least he had a reason this time—a _valid_ reason—but I could not let him off completely.

“So you did use me as bait,” I finished, keeping my gaze on my feet to prevent him from seeing the faint grin trying to break free.

“No, I—” he cut his protest short, unable to deny the basic truth my statement. I had gone willingly to the club, unknowingly making myself a target, and he had followed because he had found Reinald suspicious. That he had not known for sure until Reinald set the trap was immaterial. Holmes had kept me ignorant of the danger, and that meant he had used me as bait. I understood the situation well enough to not be angry with him, but just because he had a reason for doing so did not mean I would pass up bit of revenge. I kept my gaze on my feet and said nothing.

“I had no choice but to let you think I had left the room,” he told me, his other hand coming up to press mine into his arm. “Several Yarders were nearby to go after Reinald, but if he had known you were not alone, he would have chosen a different time to attack.”

A different sort of distress colored the last few words, and I finally caught his worried gaze. He affected a scowl when he saw my widening grin, but amusement and relief mixed primarily in his eyes as he realized I had merely been jesting. He relaxed as we reached the flat.

Trying to hide that the spasms were growing stronger, I fell silent and fumbled for my key. He released my arm to reach his own key, however, frowning at me when I stumbled again as I followed him inside, but I waved him off. There was no need for the worry turning his mouth.

The door to Mrs. Hudson’s rooms opened as I reached the base of the stairs, and she peered into the darkened entry.

“You are home early,” she said, reaching to turn up the gas on the stairs. “Are you going to be here for supper after all?”

Holmes glanced at me for an answer, and I nodded. “Our plans were cancelled somewhat last-minute,” I told her, “and I doubt we will go out again tonight.”

I doubted _I_ would anyway, and the way Holmes kept glancing at me said he probably would not either. The discomfort in that old injury was turning into true pain. I needed to get off my feet.

“It may be a bit late,” she answered without hesitation. She was well used to unexpected changes in plans, “but I will have something up for you when I can.”

She closed the door as I thanked her, and I tried to wave Holmes up the stairs ahead of me, intending to grab my cane from the entryway before attempting the stairs.

He ignored the gesture, taking my arm in his again despite my protests.

“You have gotten more stubborn over the years,” he said when I finally leaned on him on our way up the steps.

I huffed a laugh. “I think we have had this conversation before.” My usual reply was some variation of having learned it from him, and a grin twitched his mouth at the change.

“I believe you might have passed me,” he replied, steadying me when I faltered on the step. “I have never tried to claim I was fine despite being almost unable to walk.”

Playful banter changed to irritation, and my answering scowl was more genuine than affected. “I can walk,” I nearly snapped, then shut my mouth with a click to prevent myself from angrily voicing a comment about _why_ I was limping. Acknowledging that his tackle had caused me pain would only make him feel guilty, and I still preferred a hard fall over that dart no matter that his comment had pricked my pride.

“Poor phrasing,” he acknowledged, the words as close to an apology as I would get. “I only meant that—easy!”

A spasm abruptly shot down my leg, and the knee buckled from the pain. Only Holmes’ quick reaction saved me from losing my balance, and I found myself pressed against him, my arm slung over his shoulders while his arm wrapped around me.

“Watson?” he asked after a moment.

I shook my head instead of voicing a reply. I was not hurt—at least not any more than I had been before—but it would be another minute before I caught my breath. The abrupt ones seemed to knock the wind out of me worse than the others, and I could see guilt beginning to shadow his gaze. He should not feel guilty for pushing me out of the line of fire, but the breath to say as much refused to come.

We reached the landing before I found my words.

“Stop worrying, Holmes. This is hardly the first time I have had trouble on the stairs.”

The guilt never lessened. “I should not have tackled you so hard.”

“Better to hit the ground than become a human dartboard,” I answered, redirecting our steps toward my chair when he tried to aim for the settee.

The answering huff carried a hint of amusement. “What about not hitting the ground at all?”

I waved off the comment. “We already established that that wasn’t an option, and you could not have known that the tackle would cause this. You know it does not always.” The awkward landing had been the difference, but I saw no reason to point that out.

He hesitated but finally nodded, and I carefully readjusted in my chair.

“So quit worrying. It will pass in a couple of hours, and until then, you can tell me about your case against Reinard. What do you know about him? Why did he start killing people?”

He seated himself in the chair opposite, studying me.

“Holmes?”

He finally sighed but answered, detailing the leads he had chased over the last few days when I had thought he was updating his indices. He had started with compiling all the information available for the previous murders, each occurring near the rail line from Aberdeen, and he quickly confirmed the pattern he had faintly noticed previously. Then he started applying that pattern here, frantically trying to locate Reinard before I was supposed to meet him. He never said as much outright, but I could tell he had hoped to catch the murderer and still have my afternoon go as planned. When this morning arrived and he had not yet apprehended his suspect, however, he had sent a message to the Yard to set up the trap and accompanied me to my club.

“But what was his motive?” I asked when he finished. “The Reinard I knew would never have dreamed of doing anything like this.”

He hesitated again, deciding how to answer. “There was an incident your second year of school in which a classmate died. It was never proven that Reinard did anything wrong, but the scandal chased him out of school. It is possible an accidental killing gave him the bloodlust to do it on purpose.”

I frowned, unable to picture the nearly boisterous young man I had known so many years ago as a repeat murderer.

“How many?” I asked simply.

“Unknown,” he responded quietly, reluctance in his gaze. “He seems to have moved around constantly, and missing persons cases are difficult to track across cities.”

“How many on this trip?” I clarified.

“There has been fifteen people listed as missing between here and Aberdeen in the last three weeks. Ten of them were found dead, one was found alive but died without waking, and the other four are still missing.”

And I had nearly joined that number. That knowledge was probably a significant portion of why his gaze had not left me since my club.

“And now he is in jail,” I finished instead, trying to lift the tension still resting on his shoulders. “Catching him here gave the Yard enough evidence to put him away for many years, if not see him swing. Many people are safe now.” _Including me._

He twitched a half-smile, hearing the unspoken ending, and I readjusted in my chair.

“So does this mean you are going to join me at my club more often?”

He merely scowled, and I laughed. I knew better than to hope for such a thing.

It really was too bad. I was sure the strategy behind billiards would intrigue him.


	31. Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From sirensbane: Celebration

“Why are you still awake?”

I looked up from my book, smothering a small yawn to see Holmes standing in the doorway.

“It is almost midnight,” I replied, figuring that would be answer enough.

He scowled as he ducked into his room for his dressing gown, coming out barely a minute later sans the wig and makeup that were part of his most recent disguise.

“I am aware of that,” he told me, “but the question remains. I expected you to be asleep by now.” _Especially since you got very little sleep last night._

I felt a smile turn my mouth. “You lost track of the days.”

Though phrased as a statement, there was a question behind it as well, and he thought for only a moment before understanding crossed his face. “New Year’s Eve,” he acknowledged as he took the other chair, amusement trying to break free. “Yes, I did.”

“Did you finish your case, at least?” Several families had woken on Christmas morning to find decorations slightly depleted and one or two small presents missing, and Holmes had been chasing leads ever since. I had not been with him only because a storm front had kept me near the fire the first day, and the rest had been the information gathering for which he was better suited.

He nodded, leaning back in his chair as I put my book aside. “The milkman fell on hard times and took a few things from each house to give his daughter a Christmas. He confessed when directly questioned.”

“How did you catch him?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I suppose I did not truly catch him,” he admitted. “There was no arrest.”

“No arrest?” I made no effort to hide my confusion. Surely, Hopkins could not have— “Hopkins did not charge him?”

“Hopkins was not present for the confession,” he told me, “and he and Lestrade agreed when I suggested I had been commissioned to find instead of capture the thief. I had O’Connor return what he had taken, though that required telling his daughter what he had done, and she went with him to return the gifts. They returned home to find a small, late Christmas in their sitting room, courtesy of the Yard.”

I stared at him for a moment. “The _Yard_ took up a donation to decorate his house?” This was not the first time he had let someone guilty go free, but I had not expected the Yard to contribute anything.

He smirked at my surprise. “I believe Hopkins told the others that a friend had not been able to have much of a Christmas. He and one of the constables set up the sitting room after I opened the door for them.”

I laughed. “He broke in to steal a Christmas, and you broke in to _give_ one.”

Holmes’ ears turned red, and he squirmed in his seat. “I suppose that is one way to look at it.”

I could not kill my grin, but I made no further comment, pulling myself to my feet as the clock chimed the quarter hour.

“What is it this year?” he asked when I moved toward my desk. He knew what I was doing.

“A champagne.” Alone in the flat, there had been no reason to open the bottle I had bought for the occasion, but he had returned in time for us to toast the new year as we usually did. “We had wine last year.”

He huffed. “There is nothing wrong with having the same thing two years in a row.”

“Except for the belief that to ring in the new year exactly the same way you did the old one means this year will be the same as the last.”

A derisive snort reached my ears. “Poppycock.”

“No, that’s Father Christmas.”

He barked a laugh, and I could not hide my answering grin. The Irregulars had several very young members this year, and every time we had seen them in the days running up to Christmas, Holmes had had to field many questions about where Father Christmas was and whether Father Christmas would be able to find them now that they no longer had a home. The older children had always firmly asserted that they _had_ a home with the Irregulars and that Father Christmas would find them easily, but I had been forced to scowl Holmes into playing along. Afterwards, he always ranted about the idea of a single being able to transport gifts all over the world as a “load of poppycock.”

“You cannot seriously believe that the wine we drink at midnight has any effect on the year to come.”

“Of course not.” The bottle landed on the table with a faint thump, and I continued as he took two glasses from his desk. “I do like a bit of variety, though, and you like champagne well enough.”

He huffed at me but made no reply, and silence fell until we had each settled with a glass.

“Do you have a New Year’s resolution?” I asked.

“You know my opinion on such things,” was his answer, and I felt a grin escape. His opinion on resolutions closely match his opinion on Father Christmas.

“Nothing you want to do better?” I tried again. “Nothing you want to change?”

He thought for a moment but shook his head instead of speaking his mind. “Nothing.”

Or nothing he would speak aloud, anyway. I did not press him.

“You?” he finally asked, gaze on his drink as he tried to affect disinterest.

I considered what I wanted to reply. I wanted to keep him away from the cocaine another year. I wanted to continue living here another year. I wanted to continue helping with his cases for another year.

“I suppose not,” I finally said with a chuckle. “What a pair we make.”

He smirked. “Indeed.”

Silence fell again, and I stared into the fire. This had been a long year, from chaotic cases to medical problems for both of us. There were many things I hoped did not repeat, but there just as many things I hoped did. I chose to believe the next year would be better than the last.

“It will be.”

I smothered a start, jerking out of my thoughts to find him staring at me, and I affected a scowl. “You know I hate it when you do that.”

A grin twitched his mouth. “Yet you cannot completely feign irritation when I do.”

I rolled my eyes in answer and glanced at the clock. “It is nearly midnight.”

He followed my gaze, raising his glass as I counted the final seconds. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Happy New Year, Holmes.”

He did not return the words and never had, but his glass touched mine with a faint ping.

“You really should go to bed,” he told me after we had sipped.

I waved him off, relaxing further into my chair. “I am perfectly fine right here, and I have nothing to do this morning.”

With Holmes on the other side of the fireplace, I was quite willing to stay here for an hour or two longer, but an envelope landed in my lap. I looked away from the fire to find him watching me.

“What is this?” I asked, setting my glass aside.

He affected a shrug, his gaze on the envelope as I picked it up and turned it over in my hand. “Open it,” he told me.

The flap was unsealed, and two small pieces of foolscap fell into my hand. My jaw probably fell open.

“Where did you get these?”

I held two tickets to a concert, one that had been sold out for months, and I tore my gaze away from the tickets to look up at Holmes.

Pleasure lit his gaze at my surprise. “They were supposed to be your Christmas present, but my contact could not get the ones I had originally requested.”

“Holmes!” How could he be so casual about this? The two tickets I held were listed for some of the best seats in the hall, and I had tried to get them for _him_ months ago.

He read the thought on my face, and a true smile finally escaped. “You are holding what was going to be my Christmas present.”

I nodded. “They were sold out. I could not even get some nearby. How did you _get_ these?”

His grin widened, but he refused to answer. “My contact is very good.”

I shook my head at his stubbornness. “Thank you.”

He waved me off, his pleasure at my surprise still evident even as he changed the topic.

“You have something to do today, now.”

I laughed, finally noticing that the time stamped in the corner of each ticket was for early afternoon January first. “I suppose I do, but that means _you_ should go to bed as well.”

He drained his glass with a nod, pulling himself to his feet as I gained mine, and I followed him onto the landing. He disappeared into his bedroom as I mounted the steps.

“Happy New Year, Watson.”

The words faintly carried when I was halfway up the stairs, but he had ducked into his room by the time I glanced back. I merely grinned and continued to my room.

If the beginning was any indication, this would be a good year indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


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